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THE        WIDOW 


O"  wc"'  *  uas  on'y  s 
you  the  sujjar  bowl 


THE  WIDOW 

[TO   SAY   NOTHING   OF   THE   MAN] 


BY  HELEN  ROWLAND 
ILLUSTRATED  BY 
ESTHER  P.  HILL 


DODGE    PUBLISHING     COMPANY 
220    EAST    230    STREET,     NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Dodge  Publishing  Co. 
[THE  WIDOW.    3] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I  THE  WIDOW 5 

II  THE  WINNING  CARD?..  18 

III  WHY? 32 

IV  THE  WIDOW'S  RIVAL 47 

V  MONEY  AND  MATRIMONY  60 

VI  SIGNS  AND  COUNTERSIGNS 

OF  LOVE 73 

VII  A  SHORTCUT 86 

VIII  AFTER  LOVE — (?) 101 

IX  HER  WAY 118 

X  MARRIAGE 135 

XI  THE  WIDOW'S  DEAL 151 

XII  NEW   YEAR'S    IRRESOLU 
TIONS 165 


I 

THE  WIDOW. 

«T  Y7  THAT  would  you  say," 

%   ji    I     asked      the     widow, 

%/^y       tucking     her     skirts 

cautiously  about  her 

patent  leather  toes  and  leaning  back 

luxuriously    against    the    variegated 

pillows,  "if  I  should  tell  you  that  I 

have  found  the  very  girl  who  would 

make  you  a  model  wife?" 

The  bachelor  glanced  up  indiffer 
ently  and  dipped  the  paddle  lazily 
into  the  water. 

"What  model?"  he  asked,  sus 
piciously.  "Women  are  like  auto 
mobiles,  you  know.  There  are  so 
many  models.  And  even  after  you 
have  selected  one  most  carefully  you 
never  can  tell  what  it  is  going  to  do." 

[5] 


THE    WIDOW 


"They  are  more  like  horses,"  de 
clared  the  widow,  "if  you  know  how 
to  handle  them,  and  are  gentle  and 
kind  --  " 

"And  let  them  see  you're  mas- 
ter- 

"And  don't  jab  them  with  spiteful 
little  spurs— 

"And  know  when  to  pull  on  the 
curb- 

"And  when  to  coax  them  with 
sugar— 

"And  when  to  beat  'em  —  and  even 
then  you  can't  tell  what  they're  going 
to  shy  at  or  balk  at  any  more  than 
you  can  tell  when  an  automobile  is 
going  to  break  down  or  run  away  or 
blow  up.  But  this  'model'  —  is  she 
pretty  and  fetching  and  warranted  to 
run  smoothly  over  rough  roads  and 
to  climb  all  the  matrimonial  hills 


[6] 


l*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     # 

and  not  puncture  a  tire  in  the  finances 
and  to  be  just  as  good  for  a  long  run 
as  for  a  spurt?  Is  she  smart  looking 
and  substantial  and— 

The  widow  sat  up  so  quickly  that 
the  canoe  swayed  unsteadily  beneath 
them. 

"She's  not  a  harem,  Mr.  TraversI" 
she  cried.  "Oh,  dear!"  she  sighed 
hopelessly,  leaning  back  again,  "why 
is  it  that  every  man  expects  to  get  a 
harem  of  virtues  combined  in  one 
wife?  I  don't  believe  any  man  but 
Solomon  was  ever  perfectly  satisfied 
with  domestic  life." 

"Solomon,"  remarked  the  bache 
lor,  giving  the  paddle  an  emphatic 
shove,  "understood  the  necessity  for 
variety  in  wives.  But  if  Solomon 
had  lived  in  the  twentieth  century 
he  wouldn't  have  needed  so  many— 

[7] 


THE    WIDOW 


er  —  annexations.  He  would  have 
got  it  all  in  one  modern  woman. 
Now,  you,  for  instance— 

"Speaking  impersonally,"  inter 
rupted  the  widow,  trying  to  look 
austere  and  at  the  same  time  to  blow 
a  chiffon  veil  out  of  her  mouth, 
"when  a  man  buys  an  automobile  he 
selects  a  runabout  or  a  victoria  or  a 
touring  car  or  a  racing  machine, 
according  to  his  needs,  and  is  satis 
fied." 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  the  bache 
lor.  "The  moment  he  has  one  auto 
mobile  he  is  sighing  for  another,  and 
he  is  never  happy  until  he  has  a  gar 
age  full  --  " 

"And  it  is  the  same  about  a  coat  or 
a  hat,"  persisted  the  widow,  ignoring 
the  interruption;  "he  picks  out  what 
suits  him  best;  but  he  doesn't  expect 


[8] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

his  top  hat  to  do  him  for  picnics  nor 
his  swallow-tail  to  serve  for  lawn 
tennis  nor  his  yachting  cap  to  look 
well  in  church  nor— 

"A  derby,"  interrupted  the  bache 
lor,  "will  do  almost  anywhere." 

"They're  hideous,  Mr.  Travers! 
and  stiff  and  commonplace  and  un 
comfortable  and— 

"Are  they  anything  like  the  model 
wife  you've  picked  out  for  me?"  in 
quired  the  bachelor  insinuatingly. 

The  widow  flushed  under  the  cor 
ner  of  her  chiffon  veil. 

"Well,"  she  acquiesced  unwill 
ingly,  "she  isn't  particularly  pretty 
nor  brilliant  and  fascinating,  and  all 
that;  but  she's  just  the  kind  of  a  girl 
a  man  ought  to  marry." 

"And  never  does!"  finished  the 
bachelor  triumphantly,  backing 

[9] 


THE    WIDOW 


water  and  turning  the  canoe  for  mid 
stream.  "Of  all  kinds  of  women  a 
man  detests— 

"How  many  kinds  of  women  are 
there?"  cried  the  widow  suddenly. 

"How  many  women  are  there?" 
retorted  the  bachelor.  "The  variety 
is  only  limited  by  the  number  of 
feminine  individuals.  But  funda 
mentally  they  can  be  divided  into 
two  classes,  just  as  automobiles  can 
be  divided  into  gasoline  and  electric. 
There  is  the  woman  a  man  wants  to 
marry,  the  kind  that  is  stamped  from 
birth  for  wifehood,  the  even-tem 
pered,  steady-going,  comfortable 
kind  of  girl  that  you  would  like  to 
tie  to  for  life  and  with  whom  you 
know  you  would  be  perfectly  con 
tented  —  and  utterly  stupid.  Every 
man  has  in  mind  his  ideal  wife;  and 

[10] 


«*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

nearly  every  man's  ideal  is  of  the 
calm,  domestic,  wholly  good,  wholly 
sweet  sort,  the  sort  that  seems  like  a 
harbor  away  from  the  storm.  But  so 
often,  just  about  as  he  has  found  this 
ideal,  or  before  he  has  found  her  and 
before  the  sun  of  his  summer  day 
dream  has  risen  the  storm  comes 
along— 

"The—what?" 

"The  tumultuous,  impossible,  ador 
able,  unfathomable  woman  —  the 
woman  who  may  be  good  or  bad, 
ugly  or  beautiful,  but  is  always  fas 
cinating,  alluring  and  irresistable. 
And  she  wrecks  his  little  summer  day 
dream  and  turns  his  snug  harbor  into 
a  roaring  whirlpool  and  carries  him 
off  in  a  tempest.  Sometimes  he  mar 
ries  her  and  sometimes  he  doesn't; 
but  whether  he  does  or  does  not,  he 

[11] 


<*  THE    WIDOW  3* 

is  always  spoiled  for  the  other  kind 
afterward." 

"And  if  he  does  marry  her,"  added 
the  widow,  trailing  her  fingers 
thoughtfully  in  the  water,  "he  is 
always  sorry  and  wishing  he  had 
married  the  other  kind." 

"Well,"  the  bachelor  laid  his 
paddle  across  his  knee,  "what's  the 
difference?  If  he  had  married  the 
other  kind  he  would  always  have 
been  wishing  he  hadn't.  Now  if  a 
man  could  only  be  allowed  two 
wives " 

"One  for  week  days  and  one  for— 
holidays?"  inquired  the  widow  sar 
castically. 

"Yes,"  acquiesced  the  bachelor, 
"one  for  each  side  of  him,  the  tame 
side  and  the  untamed  side.  One  to 
serve  as  a  harbor  and  make  him  a 

[12] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

home  and  fulfill  his  domestic  long 
ings  and  bring  up  his  children  and 
keep  him  sane  and  moral;  and  the 
other  to  amuse  him  and  entertain  him 
and  inspire  him  and  put  the  trim 
mings  on  life  and  the  spice  and  flavor 
in  the  matrimonial  dish." 

"A  sedative  and  a  stimulant!" 
jeered  the  widow.  "One  to  stir  you 
up  and  one  to  calm  you  down;  one 
to  spur  you  forward  and  one  to  pull 
on  the  curb — a  Hebe  and  a  Minerva! 
And  then  you'd  be  running  around 
demanding  a  Venus  to  make  you  for 
get  the  other  two.  Whatever  woman 
a  man  marries,  he  invariably  spends 
his  life  sighing  for  something  differ 
ent.  If  he  is  tied  to  a  nice,  soft  sofa 
pillow,  he  longs  for  a  backbone.  If 
he  marries  a  parlor  ornament,  he 
yearns  for  a  kitchen  utensil.  If  his 

[is] 


THE    WIDOW 


wife  has  a  Greek  nose,  he  discovers 
afterward  that  what  he  really  ad 
mires  is  pugs.  If  he  picks  out  red 
hair  or  black,  he  will  go  blocks  out 
of  his  way  to  pursue  every  yellow 
glint  that  catches  his  eye.  And  if  he 
married  a  whole  harem  at  once  he 
would  discover  that  what  he  really 
wanted  was  monogamy,  and  a  single 
wife  with  a  single  idea.  There  aren't 
enough  kinds  of  women  in  the  world 
to  fulfill  any  one  man's  idea  of  what 
a  wife  should  be." 

"And  yet,"  sighed  the  bachelor,  "I 
once  knew  a  woman  who  would  have 
done  that  —  all  by  herself." 

The  widow  looked  unconvinced. 

"Was  she  a  model  wife?"  she  in 
quired,  skeptically. 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  the  bache 
lor.  "She  wasn't  my  wife." 

[14] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      * 

"Of  course  not!"  cried  the  widow. 
"It  is  always  the  other  man's  wife 
who  is  our  ideal— 

"She  wasn't  my  ideal,"  protested 
the  bachelor.  "She  was  the  storm 
that  shattered  my  ideal  and  spoiled 
me  for  matrimony.  She  was  a  whole 
garage,  a  whole  stable,  a  whole 
harem  in  one." 

The  widow  looked  distinctly  dis 
approving. 

"It's  lucky,"  she  said  coldly,  "that 
you  escaped — a  woman  like — that!" 

"But  I  haven't,"  protested  the 
bachelor,  laying  down  his  paddle  and 
leaning  forward  so  that  the  ends  of 
the  widow's  chiffon  veil  blew  in  his 
face.  "She  was  the  spice  in  life's 
pudding,  the  flavor,  the  sauce,  the 
stimulant,  the— 

"This  canoe  is  tipping  dreadfully," 

[15] 


THE    WIDOW 


remarked  the  widow,  but  the  disap 
proval  had  disappeared  from  her 
eyes. 

"She  was- 

"Why,  I  do  believe  it's  growing 
dark,  Mr.  Travers." 

"It  is,"  agreed  the  bachelor.  "No 
body  can  see— 

"See  —  what?"  asked  the  widow, 
suddenly  sitting  up  straight  and  fix 
ing  the  bachelor  with  her  eyes. 

"How  perfectly  adorable  and  un 
fathomable  and  tumultuous— 

"Are  you  feeding  me  sugar,  Mr. 
Travers?" 

"Perhaps,"  acknowledged  the 
bachelor,  leaning  back  and  picking 
up  the  paddle  again,  "but  some  day, 
when  I'm  ready,  I'm  going  to  stop 
feeding  you  sugar.  I'm  going  to  put 
on  the  curb  bit." 


[16] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

"Why    don't    you    do    it    now— 
Billy?"  asked  the  widow,  with  a  chal 
lenging    glance    from    beneath    her 
lashes. 

"I  can't,"  grumbled  the  bachelor, 
"while  you  are  blowing  that  chiffon 
veil." 

The  widow  took  the  two  ends  of 
the  offensive  thing  and  tied  them  de 
liberately  under  her  chin. 

"Some  day,"  continued  the  bache 
lor,  as  he  swung  the  canoe  shoreward 
with  a  vigorous  dip  of  the  paddle, 
I'm  going  to  show  you  who's  master. 
I'm  going  to  marry  you  and  then— 

"Be  sorry!"  laughed  the  widow. 

"Of  course,"  assented  the  bachelor, 
"but  I'd  be  sorrier— if  I  didn't." 


[17] 


•J*  THEWIDOW  J»- 

II 

THE  WINNING  CARD? 

I  If    I    1  HERE"  said  the  bachelor 

as  he  bowed  to  a  little 

man    across    the    room, 

"sits  the  eighth  wonder 

of  the  world — a  man  with  a  squint 

and  a  cork  leg  and  no  income  to  speak 

of,  who  has  just  married  for  the  third 

time.  What  makes  us  so  fascinating?" 

The  widow  laid  down  her  oyster 
fork  and  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the 
beautiful  girl  in  blue  chiffon  sitting 
opposite  the  man  with  the  squint. 

"Don't  generalize,"  she  said,  turn 
ing  rebukingly  to  the  bachelor.  "You 
mean  what  makes  the  little  man  so 
fascinating?" 

118] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J« 

The  bachelor  jabbed  an  oyster 
viciously. 

"Well,"  he  grumbled,  "what  does 
make  him  so  fascinating?  Is  it  the 
squint  or  the  cork— 

The  widow  looked  at  him  re 
proachfully. 

"Don't  be  envious,"  she  said.  "He 
might  have  two  squints  and  yet  be 
successful  with  women.  Haven't  you 
ever  seen  a  runty,  plain  little  man  be 
fore,  with  nothing  on  earth,  appar 
ently,  to  recommend  him  except  his 
sex,  who  could  draw  the  women  as  a 
magnet  does  needles?" 

The  bachelor  dropped  his  oyster 
and  stared  at  the  widow. 

"It's  hypnotism!"  he  declared  with 
solemn  conviction. 

The  widow  laughed. 

"It's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  con- 

[19] 


THE    WIDOW 


tradicted.  "It's  because  he  holds 
man's  winning  card  and  knows  how 
to  play  it.  Just  observe  the  tender 
solicitude  with  which  he  consults  her 
about  that  fish." 

"You  mean,"  inquired  the  bache 
lor  suspiciously,  "that  he  has  a  fas 
cinating  way?" 

"That's  all  he  needs,"  responded 
the  widow  promptly,  "to  make  him 
irresistible." 

"Then,  how  do  you  account," 
argued  the  bachelor,  indicating  a 
Gibsonesque  young  man  eating  his 
dinner  alone  under  a  palm  at  the  cor 
ner  table,  "for  the  popularity  of 
that  Greek  god  over  there?  He's  a 
perfect  boor,  yet  the  women  in  this 
hotel  pet  him  and  coax  him  and 
cuddle  him  as  if  he  were  a  prize  lion 
cub." 

[20] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

"Oh,"  remarked  the  widow,  "if 
you  were  all  Greek  gods — that  would 
be  different.  But,  unfortunately,  the 
average  man  is  just  an  ungainly  look 
ing  thing  in  a  derby  hat  and  hideous 
clothes,  with  knuckly  hands  and 
padded  shoulders  and  a  rough  chin." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  bachelor 
sweetly.  "I  see — as  in  a  looking 
glass.  Evidently  our  countenances— 

"Pooh!"  jeered  the  widow,  "your 
countenances  just  don't  count.  That's 
all.  What  profiteth  it  a  man  though 
he  have  the  face  of  an  Appollo  if  he 
have  the  legs  of  a  Caliban?  A  woman 
never  bothers  about  a  man's  face.  It's 
his  figure  that  attracts  her.  She  will 
forgive  weak  eyes  and  a  cut-off  chin 
twice  as  quickly  as  weak  shoulders 
and  cut-off  legs." 

"That's   why  we   pad   them — the 

[21] 


THE    WIDOW 


shoulders,"  explained  the  bachelor. 

"You  wouldn't  need  to,"  retorted 
the  widow,  "if  you  knew  how  to  play 
the  winning  card." 

"What  IS  the  winning  card?"  im 
plored  the  bachelor,  leaning  across 
the  table  anxiously. 

The  widow  laid  down  her  soup 
spoon  and  bent  to  arrange  the  violets 
in  her  belt  meditatively. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Sir  Walter  Ra 
leigh  played  it  and  it  won  him  a  title  ; 
and  Mr.  Mantellini  played  it  and  it 
kept  him  in  spending  money  and 
fancy  waistcoats  for  years  without  his 
doing  a  stroke  of  work;  and  Louis 
XIV.  —  but  oh,  pshaw!  You  know 
all  about  that.  Briefly  speaking,  a 
man's  winning  card  is  his  knowledge 
of  how  to  treat  a  woman.  Specific- 

[22] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

ally,  it  is  a  tender,  solicitous,  protect 
ing  manner.  A  woman  just  loves  to 
be  'protected,'  whether  there  is  any 
thing  to  be  protected  from  or  not. 
She  loves  to  know  that  you  are  anxi 
ous  for  her  safety  and  comfort,  even 
when  there  is  no  cause  in  the  world 
for  your  anxiety.  She  loves  to  have 
you  wait  on  her,  even  when  there  is 
a  room  full  of  hired  waiters  about. 
She  loves  to  be  treated  like  an  ador 
able,  cunning,  helpless  child,  even 
when  she  is  five  feet  ten  and  weighs 
a  cool  two  hundred.  She  delights  in 
having  a  mental  cloak  laid  down  for 
her  to  walk  over  and  every  time  you 
do  it  she  secretly  knights  you." 

"It  sounds  awfully  easy,"  said  the 
bachelor. 

"But  it  isn't,"  retorted  the  widow, 
"if  it  were  all  men  would  try  it — and 

[23] 


THE    WIDOW 


all  men  would  be  perfectly  irresist 
ible." 

"Well,  aren't  they?"  asked  the 
bachelor,  innocently.  "I  thought 
they- 

"The  winning  way,  the  irresistible 
masculine  manner,"  pursued  the 
widow,  ignoring  the  interruption,  "is 
something  subtle  and  inborn.  It  can't 
be  put  on  or  varnished  over.  It  is 
neither  a  pose  nor  a  patent.  It  is  the 
gift  of  one  of  the  good  fairies  at  birth. 
If  it  is  going  to  be  trained  into  a  man 
he  must  be  caught  and  schooled  very 
early  —  say,  before  he  is  ten  years 
old.  It's  his  ingrain  attitude  toward 
women  and  he  begins  by  practicing 
it  on  his  mother.  If  he  is  not  to  the 
manner  born  and  tries  to  cultivate  it 
late  in  life,  he  must  watch  very  care 
fully  to  see  that  he  does  not  overdo 

[24] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J* 

it  like  a  lackey  or  a  dancing  master  or 
the  villain  in  a  melodrama.  Of 
course,  it  can  be  cultivated  to  a  cer 
tain  extent,  like  music  or  Christian 
Science,  but  it's  hard  for  a  man  to 
learn  that  a  woman  is  a  fragile  crea 
ture  and  needs  a  bodyguard,  after 
he  has  been  twenty  years  letting  his 
sisters  pack  their  own  trunks  and  lug 
their  own  satchels  and  golf  clubs. 
Besides,  most  men  are  too  busy  or  too 
self-absorbed  to  cultivate  it,  if  they 
could." 

"Most  men,"  remarked  the  bache 
lor,  stirring  his  coffee  and  lighting 
his  cigarette,  "aren't  anxious  to  be 
come  the  sort  of  'mother's  darling' 
you  describe." 

"Nonsense,"  retorted  the  widow. 
"Richard  the  Third  was  a  perfectly 
adorable  ladies'  man  and  he  couldn't 

[25] 


THE    WIDOW 


be  called  exactly  —  a  'mother's  dar 
ling.'  Yet  the  things  he  said  to  poor 
Lady  Anne  and  the  way  he  said  them 
would  have  turned  any  feminine 
brain.  It  isn't  milk  and  water  that 
women  admire;  it's  the  milk  of 
human  interest.  It's  the  feeling  that 
a  man  is  gazing  at  you  instead  of 
through  you  at  his  own  reflection  —  or 
some  other  woman." 

"But  if  it  means  giving  up  all  the 
easy  chairs,"  protested  the  bachelor, 
"and  packing  all  the  family  trunks 
and  putting  out  your  pipe  every  time 
a  female  member  of  the  family  ap 
proaches  and  eating  dishes  you  don't 
want  and  running  round  doing  house 
hold  errands,  a  man  hasn't  got 
time— 

"It  doesn't!"  declared  the  widow. 
"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  morals  or 

[26] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J* 

with  selfishness.  Some  of  the  most 
selfish  men  in  the  world  are  those 
whom  a  poor  little  woman  will  work 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  to  support, 
simply  because  when  she  comes  home 
at  night  after  her  labors  her  husband 
puts  his  arms  around  her  and  tells 
her  how  sad  it  makes  him  feel  to  see 
her  struggle  so,  and  how  young  and 
beautiful  she  keeps  in  spite  of  it  all 
and  orders  her  to  lie  down  and  let 
him  run  out  and  fetch  her  some  ice 
cream  and  read  to  her.  A  man  with 
that  sort  of  way  with  him  can  get  any 
thing  on  earth  out  of  a  woman  and 
then  make  her  eternally  grateful  to 
him.  Look  at  the  husbands  who  slave 
all  day  earning  money  for  their  wives 
to  spend  and  go  home  tired  out  and 
grouchy  and  never  get  a  word  of 
thanks.  Yet,  a  man  can  stay  out  six 

[27] 


THE     WIDOW 


nights  in  the  week,  and  if  he  will 
come  home  on  the  seventh  with  a  kiss 
and  a  compliment  and  a  box  of  candy 
and  any  old  lie  and  a  speech  about 
sympathy  and  all  that,  a  nice  sensible 
wife  will  forgive  and  forget1—  and 
adore  him." 

"But  are  there  any  nice  sensible 
wives?"  asked  the  bachelor  plain 
tively. 

"Have  you  finished  your  cigarette, 
Mr.  Travers?"  inquired  the  widow 
coolly. 

"Because  if  there  are,  that  is  just 
what  I  am  looking— 

"If  you  have,"  pursued  the  widow, 
"I  think  we  had  better  go." 

The  bachelor  rose  with  alacrity. 

"I  think  so,  too,"  he  acquiesced, 
pleasantly.  "That  Greek  god  over 
yonder  under  the  palm  has  been  star- 

[28] 


"HP  HAT    Greek    god    has    been 
staring     as     if     he     contem 
plated   murder." 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

ing  at  me  as  if  he  contemplated  mur 
der  for  the  last  half  hour." 

The  widow  blushed. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  with  a  one-cor 
nered  smile,  "he  is  envying  you— 

"Undoubtedly!"  agreed  the  bache 
lor. 

"Envying  you,"  pursued  the 
widow,  "your  fascinating  ways." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  bachelor,  "then  I 
have  got  it." 

"What?"  said  the  widow. 

"The  winning  card.    The  charm !" 

"Well,"  said  the  widow,  putting 
her  head  on  the  side  and  gazing  at 
him  speculatively,  "you  wear  a  derby 
hat." 

"I  take  it  off  in  the  house  and  in 
the  presence  of  ladies,"  protested  the 
bachelor. 

[29] 


THEWIDOW 


"And  your  shoulders—  '  began 
the  widow. 

"They  are  my  own!"  declared  the 
bachelor. 

"And  your- 

"They  also  are  mine,"  broke  in  the 
bachelor  quickly. 

"And  besides  all  that,"  added  the 
widow,  "you  have  that  little  bald  spot 
in  the  middle  of  your  head.  And 
yet  --  " 

"Go  on,"  said  the  bachelor,  "you 
have  said  the  worst." 

"I  broke  an  engagement  with  a 
nice  boy  to  dine  with  you  to-night." 

"That  doesn't  prove  anything," 
said  the  bachelor  scornfully.  "May 
be  he  hasn't  played  the  winning 
card." 

"No,  it  proves  you  have,"  declared 
the  widow. 

[30] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"I  can't  see  it!"  protested  the 
bachelor. 

"Well,  just  look  at  the  Greek  god 
over  under  the  palm  and  then  look 
in  the  glass  at  yourself  and — work 
it  out." 

"But  why  look  at  the  Greek  god?" 

"Because,"  said  the  widow,  turning 
to  the  mirror  and  carefully  tilting  her 
hat,  "he  is  the  nice  boy  with  whom 
I  broke  the  engagement." 


[31] 


THEWIDOW 


Ill 

WHY? 

**TT7   THY    is    a    woman?" 

\  \  /  snapped  the  bachelor, 
\/%/  flinging  himself  into 
the  big  armchair  op 
posite  the  widow  with  a  challenging 
glance. 

"Why — why,  because,"  stammered 
the  widow,  startled  at  his  sudden  ap 
pearance. 

"I  knew  it!"  said  the  bachelor  with 
conviction. 

"And  there  are  lots  of  other 
reasons,  Mr.  Travers." 

"But  they  aren't  reasonable,"  de 
clared  the  bachelor  doggedly. 

The  widow  closed  her  book  with  a 
sigh  and  laid  it  on  the  table  beside 
her. 

[32] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Who  said  they  were?"  she  asked 
vvitheringly.  "Neither  is  a  woman. 
Being  reasonable  is  so  stupid.  It's 
worse  than  being  suitable  or  sensible, 
or — or  proper." 

The  bachelor  lifted  his  eyebrows 
in  mild  astonishment. 

"I  thought  those  were  virtues,"  he 
protested. 

"They  are,  Mr.  Travers,"  returned 
the  widow  crushingly,  "and  that's 
why  they're  so  uninteresting.  You 
might  as  well  ask  why  is  music,  or 
painting,  or  pate  de  foie  gras,  or 
champagne,  or  ice  cream,  or  any 
thing  else  charming  and  delicious — " 

"And  utterly  useless." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  the  widow, 
leaning  back  and  thoughtfully  twist 
ing  the  bit  of  lace  she  called  a  hand 
kerchief.  "It's  the  utterly  useless 

[33] 


THEWIDOW 


things  that  make  the  world  attractive 
and  pleasant  to  live  in  —  like  flowers 
and  bonbons  and  politics  and  love— 

"And  tobacco,"  added  the  bache 
lor  reflectively. 

"Woman  is  the  dessert  to  the 
feast,"  went  on  the  widow,  "the 
trimmings  on  the  garment  of  life,  the 
spice  in  the  pudding.  Of  course,  a 
man  can  eat  his  dinner  without  des 
sert  or  champagne  and  live  his  life 
without  kisses  or  a  woman  —  but 
somehow  he  never  does." 

"And  that's  just  where  he  gets  into 
trouble,"  retorted  the  bachelor 
promptly.  "If  you  could  only  tell," 
he  went  on  pathetically,  "what  any 
one  of  them  was  going  to  do  or  why 
she  was  going  to  do  it,  or— 

"Then  it  isn't  'Why  is  a  woman?' 
but  'Why  Joes  a  woman?'  that  you 

[34] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

wanted    to    know,"    interrupted  the 
widow  helpfully. 

"That's  it!"  cried  the  bachelor, 
"why  does  she  get  off  a  car  back 
ward?  Why  does  she  wear  a  skirt 
four  yards  long  and  then  get  furious 
if  you  step  on  it?  Why  does  she 
make  a  solemn  and  important  en 
gagement  without  the  slightest  inten 
tion  of  keeping  it?  Why  does  she 
put  on  open-work  stockings  and 
gaudy  shoes  and  hold  her  frock  as 
high  as  she  dares — and  then  annihi 
late  you  if  you  stare  at  her?  Why 
does  she  use  everything  as  it  was  not 
intended  to  be  used — a  hairpin  to 
pick  a  lock,  a  buttonhook  to  open  a 
can,  a  hairbrush  to  hammer  a  nail,  a 
hatpin  to  rob  a  letter  box,  a  razor  to 
sharpen  a  pencil  and  a  cup  and  saucer 
to  decorate  the  mantelpiece?  Why 

[35] 


THE    WIDOW 


does  she  gush  over  the  woman  she 
hates  worst  and  snub  the  man  she  is 
dying  to  marry?  Why  does  she  lick 
all  the  glue  off  a  postage  stamp  and 
then  try  to  make  it  stick?  Why  does 
she  cry  at  a  wedding  and  act  frivol 
ous  at  a  funeral?  Why  does  she  put 
a  new  feather  on  her  hat  and  a  new 
kink  in  her  hair,  and  expect  a  man  to 
notice  it  as  quickly  and  be  as  aston 
ished  as  he  would  if  she  had  shaved 
her  head  or  lost  a  limb?  Why  does 
she  seem  offended  if  you  don't  make 
love  to  her,  and  then  get  angry  if  you 
do?  Why  does  she  act  kittenish  when 
she's  big  and  dignified,  when  she's 
little  and  old,  when  she's  young  and 
silly,  when  she's  old?  And  why,  oh, 
why,  did  you  inveigle  me  into  com 
ing  down  to  this  miserable  pink-and- 
white  house  party  with  the  hope  of 

[36] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     * 

being  near  you  and  then  utterly  ig 
nore  me  and  spend  your  time  flirt 
ing  with  Bobby  Taylor,  while  I  sulk 


11 

.....  , 

i>r   Miss    Manners?"   suggested 

n||||widow  cuttingly. 

fiss    Manners!1'    exclaimed    trie 
i^i|fei.']or  scornfully. 

cm  once  thought  her  very  beaii- 

Mr.  Travers." 

p  'hat's     just     it!"     retorted     th 
fp»elur.     "Why  didn't  you  let  nle 

,  thinking  her  beautiful— 

::'::::!!  .....  As  delicate  as  a  sea  shell,'  wasd| 

1 

"Yes,"  snapped  the  bachelor,  "arti 


iiie  widow  smiled  enigmatically! 
IV11    me,"   she   said   sympathet|  ...... 

"what  she  has  done  to  you." 


J« 


"Well,  for  one  thing,"  complained 
the  bachelor,  "she  coaxed  me  out  on 
the  piazza  last  night  in  the  moon 
light,  and  then,  when  she  had  talked 
sentiment  for  half  an  hour  and  lured 
me  to  a  dark  spot  and  simply  goaded 
me  into  taking  her  hand— 

The  widow  sat  up  straight. 

"But  you  didn't  do  it,  Billy  Trav- 
ers!" 

"Of  course  I  did.  It  seemed  almost 
an  insult  not  to.  And  what  did  she 
do?  She  jerked  it  away,  flung  her 
self  from  me,  rose  like  an  outraged 
queen,  turned  on  me  with  that  'I- 
thought-you-were-a-gentleman'  a  i  r 
and  said— 

The  widow  lay  back  in  her  chair 
and  laughed. 

"Oh,  mercy!"  she  said,  wiping  the 
tears  from  her  eyes  when  she  was 

[38] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

able.  "Excuse  me  but — but — how 
did  she  look  when  she  did  it?" 

"Well,"  confessed  the  bachelor, 
"she  did  look  rather  stunning." 

"That's  why  she  did  it,"  explained 
the  widow  between  laughs.  "A 
woman's  reason  for  doing  most  things 
is  because  she  thinks  she  will  look 
well  doing  them." 

"Or  because  she  thinks  you  will 
look  surprised  if  she  does  them." 

"Or  because  she  wants  to  attract 
your  attention." 

"Or  to  make  you  feel  uncomfort 
able." 

"Or  to  astonish  you  or  amuse  you 

nr " 

\-J  1 

"Work  on  your  sensibilities,  or  get 
on  your  nerves,  or  play  on  your 
sympathies.  But,"  he  went  on  grow 
ing  wroth  at  the  recollection,  "the 

[39] 


THE    WIDOW 


idea  of  a  little  chit  like  that  —  and 
that  isn't  the  worst.  This  morning 
she  dragged  me  out  of  bed  at  half- 
past  five  to  go  fishing.  Fishing!  At 
this  season!  I  never  saw  a  girl  so 
crazy  for  fish  in  my  life;  and  when 
we  had  walked  four  miles  to  find  the 
right  spot  and  she  had  been  silent 
long  enough  for  me  to  feel  a  nibble 
at  the  bait  and  had  helped  me  with 
all  her  might  and  main  to  haul  in  that 
blessed  little  fish,  do  you  know  what 
she  did?" 

The  widow  looked  up  question- 
ingly. 

"She  cried  because  I  wanted  to 
bring  it  home  and  made  me  throw  it 
back  into  the  water.  That's  what  she 
did!" 

The  widow  sat  up  straight,  with 
horrified  eyes. 

[40] 


•-*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Well,  of  course  she  did!1'  she  ex 
claimed  heatedly.  She  only  asked 
you  to  catch  the  fish  didn't  she — not 
to  kill  it?" 

The  bachelor  stared  at  her  for  a 
moment  without  speaking.  Then  he 
got  up  silently  and  walked  over  to 
the  window. 

"I  suppose,"  he  remarked  after  a 
long  pause,  apparently  addressing 
the  front  lawn  or  the  blue  heavens, 
"that  it's  that  same  sort  of  logic  that 
incites  a  woman  to  play  for  a  man 
until  she  catches  him — and  then 
throw  him  overboard.  O  Lord,"  he 
continued,  glancing  at  the  sky  de 
voutly,  "why  couldn't  you  have  made 
them  nice  and  sensible?" 

The  widow  took  up  her  book  with 
disdain. 

"  'Nice  and  sensible'  "  she  repeated 

[41] 


^  THE    WIDOW  J* 

witheringly.  "Just  think  how  it 
would  feel  to  be  called  'nice  and  sen 
sible!'  I  wish,"  she  added,  turning  to 
her  novel  with  an  air  of  boredom, 
"that  you  would  go  and — talk  to 
Ethel  Manners." 

The  bachelor  eyed  her  narrowly. 

"I  guess  I  will,"  he  said  finally. 
"She  seems  more  interesting — now 
that  you've  explained  her." 

The  widow  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  a  paragraph  and  looked  up. 

"And  by  Jove !"  went  on  the  bache 
lor  reminiscently,  turning  to  the 
window  again,  "she  did  look  dreamy 
in  a  sunbonnet  and  that  little  short 
skirt  this  morning.  She  has  adorable 
feet,  you  know." 

The  widow  closed  her  book  with 
a  sharp  snap,  keeping  her  fingers  be 
tween  the  pages. 

[42] 


-.*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      ^ 

"I  know,  Mr.  Travers;  but  how 
did  you  know?" 

"I  looked  at  them,"  confessed  the 
bachelor  frankly,  "and  her  ankles— 

The  widow's  mouth  closed  in  a 
straight  line. 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Travers,"  she  re 
marked  frigidly,  "that  you  are  not  a 
fit  companion  for  a  young  girl  like 
Ethel." 

"I'm  not  equal  to  her,"  grinned 
the  bachelor. 

"No,  you're  not.  She's  a  nice,  sen 
sible  girl  and— 

"Do  you  hate  her  very  much?" 

"Hate  her?"  The  widow's  eyes 
opened  with  astonishment. 

"You  called  her  'nice  and  sen 
sible,'  " 

"Bobby  Taylor's  looking  for  you, 

[43] 


THE    WIDOW 


Marion,"     called     Miss     Manners, 
glancing  in  at  the  door  suddenly. 

"Well,  goodby.  I'm  off,"  said  the 
bachelor,  following  the  swish  of  Miss 
Manncrs's  skirts  with  his  eyes,  as  she 
hurried  away  down  the  hall. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Travers!"  com 
manded  the  widow  in  an  awful  tone. 

At  that  moment  a  buoyant  young 
man  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Go  way,  Bobby,"  said  the  widow. 
"Mr.  Travers  and  I  are  discussing— 
er  —  psychology." 

"Ugh!"  remarked  Bobby,  dutifully 
withdrawing,  "why  do  you  do  it,  if 
it  hurts?" 

The  bachelor  looked  up  at  the 
widow  under  the  tail  of  his  eyelid. 

"Does  it  hurt?"  he  asked. 

But  the  widow's  underlip  was 
curled  into  a  distinct  pout  and  her 

[44] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      ^ 

eyes  met  his  reproachfully.  She 
dabbed  them  effectively  with  the  end 
of  her  lace  handkerchief. 

"Of  c-course  it  does,"  she  said 
with  a  little  choke  in  her  voice, 
"when  you  have  been  here  three 
whole  days  and  have  never  noticed 
me  and  have  spent  every  minute  of 
your  time  trailing  around  after  that 
—that — little— 

"But  wasn't  that  what  you  invited 
me  for?"  exclaimed  the  bachelor 
helplessly. 

"Of  course  it  was,"  acknowledged 
the  widow,  "but — but  I  didn't  think 
you'd  do  it." 

The  bachelor  gazed  at  her  a 
moment  in  blank  amazement.  Then 
a  gleam  of  enlightenment  came  into 
his  eyes  and  he  leaned  over  and 
caught  her  fingers. 

[45] 


THE    WIDOW 


"Look  here,  Marion,"  he  said 
gently,  "you  invited  me  down  here 
to  fling  that  girl  at  my  head.  If  you 
didn't  want  me  to  fall  in  love  with 
her,  what  did  you  want?" 

"I  wanted  you  to  get  enough  of 
her!"  explained  the  widow,  smiling 
through  her  lace  handkerchief. 

"Well  —  I  have.  I've  got  too 
much!"  vowed  the  bachelor  fer 
vently. 

The  widow  laughed  softly  and 
complacently. 

"That's  just  what  I  knew  would 
happen,"  she  said,  closing  her  novel 
and  flinging  it  onto  the  couch. 

Then  she  added,  looking  up  quiz 
zically  : 

"A  woman  always  has  a  reason— 
if  you  can  only  find  out  what  it  is." 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

IV 
THE  WIDOW'S  RIVAL. 

<  <*¥  TT   THY,"  said  the  widow, 

%  \    I     gazing    thoughtfully 

^/^/       at     the      ruby-faced 

woman    with    the 

gigantic  waist-line,   who  sat  beside 

the  meek  little  man  on   the   bench 

opposite,   "do   men   marry — those?" 

The  bachelor  glanced  into  the  violet 

eyes  beneath  the  violet  hat. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  insinuatingly, 
"because  they  can't  get — somebody 
else." 

"Nonsense,"  replied  the  widow 
poking  her  parasol  emphatically  into 
the  sand.  "With  all  the  chance  a 
man  has— 

"Chance!"  cried  the  bachelor 
scoffingly.  "Chance!  What  chance 

[47] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  v* 

has  a  man  got  after  a  woman  makes 
up  her  mind  to  marry  him?" 

The  widow  dug  the  sand  spitefully 
with  the  point  of  her  violet  sunshade. 

"I  didn't  refer  to  the  chance  of 
escape,"  she  replied,  icily.  "I  was 
speaking  of  the  chance  of  a  choice." 

"That's  it!"  cried  the  bachelor. 
"The  selection  is  so  great — the  choice 
is  so  varied!  Don't  you  know  how  it 
is  when  you  have  too  many  dress  pat 
terns  or  hats  or  rings  to  choose  from? 
You  find  it  difficult  to  settle  on  any 
one — so  difficult,  in  fact,  that  you  de 
cide  not  to  choose  at  all,  but  to  keep 
them  all  dangling— 

"Or  else  just  shut  your  eyes,"  in 
terrupted  the  widow,  "and  put  out 
your  hand  and  grab  something." 

"Of  course,  you  shut  your  eyes!" 
acquiesced  the  bachelor.  "Whoever 

[48] 


"QHAXCK!    what    chance    has 
a  man   t>'ot  ?" 


«£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

went  into  matrimony  with  his  eyes 
open?" 

"A  woman  does,"  declared  the 
widow  tentatively.  "She  knows  ex 
actly  what  she  wants,  and,  if  it  is 
possible,  she  gets  it.  It  is  only  after 
she  has  tried  and  failed  many  times 
that  she  puts  her  hand  into  the  matri 
monial  grab-bag,  and  accepts  any 
thing  she  happens  to  pull  out.  But 
a  man  never  employs  any  reason  at 
all  in  picking  out  a  wife— 

"Naturally!"  scoffed  the  bachelor. 
"By  that  time,  he's  lost  his  reason!" 

The  widow  rested  her  elbow  on 
the  handle  of  her  sunshade,  put  her 
chin  in  her  hand  and  smiled  out  at 
the  sea. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  has.  He  has 
reached  the  marrying  mood." 

"The— what?" 

[49] 


THE    WIDOW 


"The  marrying  mood.  A  man 
never  decides  to  marry  a  girl  just 
simply  because  he  loves  her,  or  be 
cause  she  is  suitable,  or  because  he 
ought  to  marry  her,  or  because  she 
is  irresistible  or  fascinating  or  in 
love  with  him.  He  never  marries  at 
all  until  he  gets  the  marrying  mood, 
the  matrimonial  fever  —  and  then  he 
marries  the  first  girl  who  comes 
along  and  wants  him,  young  or  old, 
pretty  or  ugly,  good  or  bad.  And  that 
explains  why  a  lot  of  men  are  tied 
up  to  women  that  you  cannot  possibly 
see  any  reason  for  having  been  mar 
ried  at  all,  much  less  married  to  those 
particular  men." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the 
bachelor,  I'm  glad  I've  got  past  the 
age- 

"But  you  haven't!"    declared    the 

[50] 


&     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      <* 

widow  emphatically.  "The  marry 
ing  fever  is,  like  the  measles  or  the 
appendicitis,  liable  to  catch  you  at 
any  age  or  stage,  and  you  never  know 
when  or  why  or  how  you  got  it. 
Sometimes  a  man  takes  it  when  he  is 
very  young  and  rushes  into  a  fool 
marriage  with  a  woman  twice  his 
age,  and  sometimes  he  goes  all  his 
life  up  to  sixty  without  catching  the 
contagion  and  then  gets  it  horribly 
and  marries  his  cook  or  a  chorus  girl 
young  enough  to  be  his  granddaugh 
ter.  Haven't  you  seen  confirmed 
bachelor  successfully  resist  the  wiles 
of  the  most  fascinating  women  and 
turn  down  a  dozen  suitable  girls— 
and  then,  just  when  you  thought 
they  were  quite  safe  and  entirely  past 
the  chance  of  marriage  as  well  as 
their  first  youth,  turn  around  and  tie 

[51] 


THE    WIDOW 


themselves  to  some  little  fool  thing 
without  a  penny  to  her  name  or  a 
thought  worth  half  that  amount? 
That  was  a  late  attack  of  the  matri 
monial  fever  —  and  the  older  you  get 
it  the  harder  it  goes.  Let  me  see," 
added  the  widow  thoughtfully,  "how 
old  are  you?" 

"I  haven't  lost  my  ideals  —  nor  my 
teeth!"  declared  the  bachelor  de 
fensively. 

"What  is  your  ideal?"  asked  the 
widow  leaning  over  and  peeping  up 
under  the  bachelor's  hat  brim. 

The  bachelor  stared  back  at  her 
through  lowered  lashes. 

"It's  got  on  a  violet  hat,"  he  be 
gan,  "and  violet— 

"Is  that  a  ship  out  there?"  asked 
the  widow,  suddenly  becoming  in 
terested  in  the  sea. 

[52] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"And  violet— 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  interrupted  petu 
lantly.  "Of  course,  you've  got  ideals. 
All  men  have  ideals — but  they  don't 
often  marry  them.  The  trouble  is 
that  when  a  man  has  the  marrying 
fever  he  can  clothe  anything  in  curls 
and  petticoats  with  the  illusions  he 
has  built  around  that  ideal,  and  put 
the  ideal's  halo  on  her  head  and  im 
agine  she  is  the  real  thing.  He  can 
look  at  a  red-headed,  pug-nosed  girl 
from  an  angle  that  will  make  her 
hair  seem  pure  gold  and  her  pug  look 
Greek.  By  some  mental  feat,  he  can 
transform  a  girl  six  feet  tall  with  no 
waist  line  and  an  acute  elbow  into  a 
kittenish,  plump  little  thing  that  he 
has  always  had  in  mind — and  marry 
her.  Or,  if  his  ideal  is  tall  and  wil 
lowy  and  etherial,  and  he  happens  to 

[53] 


THE    WIDOW 


meet  a  woman  weighing  200  pounds 
whose  first  thought  in  the  morning  is 
her  breakfast  and  whole  last  thought 
at  night  is  her  dinner,  he  will  picture 
her  merely  attractively  plump  and  a 
marvel  of  intellect  and  imagination. 
And,"  the  widow  sank  her  chin  in 
her  hand  and  gazed  out  to  sea  reflec 
tively,  "it  is  all  so  pitiful,  when  you 
think  how  happy  men  could  make 
marriage,  if  they  would  only  go 
about  it  scientifically!" 

"Then  what,"  inquired  the  bache 
lor  flinging  away  his  cigar  and  fold 
ing  his  arms  dramatically,  "is  the 
science  of  choosing  a  wife?" 

"Well,"  said  the  widow,  counting 
off  on  the  tips  of  her  lilac  silk  gloves, 
"first  of  all  a  man  should  never 
choose  a  wife  when  he  finds  himself 
feeling  lonesome  and  dreaming  of 

[54] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     Jt 

furnished  flats  and  stopping  to  talk 
to  babies  in  the  street.  He  has  the 
marrying  fever  then,  and  is  in  no  fit 
condition  to  pick  out  a  wife  and  un 
less  he  is  very  careful  he  is  liable  to 
marry  the  first  girl  who  smiles  at  him. 
He  should  shut  his  eyes  tight  and  flee 
to  the  wilderness  and  not  come  back 
until  he  is  prepared  to  see  women  in 
their  proper  lights  and  their  right 
proportions." 

"And  then?"  suggested  the  bache 
lor. 

"Then,"  announced  the  widow 
oratorically,  "he  should  choose  a 
wife  as  he  would  a  dish  at  the  table 
—not  because  he  finds  her  attractive 
or  delicious  or  spicy,  but — because 
he  thinks  she  will  agree  with  him." 

"I  see,"  added  the  bachelor,  "and 

[55] 


THEWIDOW 


won't  keep  him  awake  nights,"  he 
added. 

The  widow  nodded. 

"Nor  give  him  a  bitter  taste  in  the 
mouth  in  the  morning.  A  good  wife 
is  like  a  dose  of  medicine  —  hard  to 
swallow,  but  truly  helpful.  The  girls 
who  wear  frills  and  high  heels  and 
curly  pompadours  are  like  the  salad 
with  the  most  dressing  and  garnish 
ing,  likely  to  be  too  rich  and  spicy, 
while  the  plain  little  thing  in  the 
serge  skirt,  who  never  powders  her 
nose,  may  prove  as  sweet  and  whole 
some  —  as  —  as  home-made  pudding." 

"Or  —  home-made  pickles,"  sug 
gested  the  bachelor  with  wry  face. 

The  widow  shook  her  parasol  at 
him  admonishingly. 

"Don't  do  that!"  cried  the  bache 
lor. 

[56] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Do  what?"  inquired  the  widow  in 
astonishment. 

"Wave  your  frills  in  my  eyes!  I 
had  just  made  up  my  mind  to  pro 
pose  to  Miss  Gunning  and— 

The  widow  sat  up  perfectly 
straight. 

"Do  you  really  admire — a  marble 
slab,  Mr.  Travers?" 

"And  your  frills,"  pursued  the 
bachelor,  unmoved,  "like  salad  dress- 
ing- 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Or  garnishings— 

"Mr.  Travers!" 

"Might  be  merely  a  lure  to  make 
me  take  something  which  would  dis 
agree  with  me." 

The  widow  rose  and  looked  coolly 
out  over  the  waves. 

"I  can't  see,"  she  said,  "why  you 

[57] 


.*  THE    WIDOW  •* 

should  fancy  there  could  be  any 
chance— 

"I  don't,"  sighed  the  bachelor.  "It 
isn't  a  matter  of  chance,  but  of 
choice." 

The  ice  in  the  widow's  eyes  melted 
into  sun  in  a  moment.  She  turned  to 
the  bachelor  impulsively. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me?" 
she  asked. 

The  bachelor  rose  and  looked 
down  at  her  critically. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "for  one  thing,  be 
cause  you're  just  the  woman  I  ought 
not  to  marry." 

"What!" 

"You're  too  highly  spiced— 

"Billy!" 

"And  you'd  be  sure  not  to  agree 
with  me— 

"Billy  Travers!" 

[  r>8  ] 


TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN 


"And  because- 


"Well?    Goon." 

"Because—  The  bachelor  hes 

itated  and  gazed  deep  into  the  violet 
eyes. 

"Please  proceed,  Mr.  Travers." 

"I  won't!"  The  bachelor  turned 
his  back  on  her  defiantly. 

The  widow  came  a  little  nearer 
and  stooped  around  to  peep  under  his 
hat-brim. 

"Please— Billy!"  she  breathed 
softly. 

"Well,  then — because  I'm  in  the 
marrying  mood,"  he  replied. 

But  the  widow  was  half  way  to  the 
hotel  before  he  knew  what  had  hap 
pened. 


J*  THE    WIDOW  ^ 

V 

MONEY  AND  MATRIMONY. 

U"¥  T7   THAT     rhymes     with 

%   \    I     ' matrimony'?"       in- 

^/^/       quired     the     widow. 

taking  her  pencil  out 

of     her     mouth     and     looking     up 

thoughtfully  through  the  fringes  of 

her  pompadour. 

"Money,"  responded  the  bachelor 
promptly,  as  he  flung  himself  down 
on  the  grass  beside  her  and  proceeded 
to  study  her  profile  through  the 
shadows  of  the  maple  leaves. 

The  widow  tilted  her  chin  scorn 
fully. 

"I  suppose  they  do  sound  alike," 
she  condescended,  "but  I  am  making 
a  poem;  and  there  is  no  poetical  har 
mony  in  the  combination." 

[60] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     3* 

"There  is  no  harmony  at  all  with 
out  it,"  remarked  the  bachelor 
shortly.  "But  how  on  earth  can  you 
make  a  poem  out  of  matrimony?" 

"Some  people  do,"  replied  the 
widow  loftilv. 

*/ 

"On  paper!"  sneered  the  bachelor. 
"On  paper  they  make  poems  of  death 
and  babies  and  railroad  accidents  and 
health  foods.  But  in  real  life  matri 
mony  isn't  a  poem;  it's  more  like  a 
declaration  of  war,  or  an  itemized  ex 
pense  account,  or  a  census  report,  or 
a  cold  business  proposition." 

The  widow  bit  the  end  of  her  pen 
cil  and  laid  aside  her  paper.  If  the 
bachelor  could  have  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  eyes  beneath  the  lowered  lashes 
he  might  not  have  gone  on ;  but  he 
was  studying  the  sky  through  the 
maple  leaves. 

[61] 


THE    WIDOW 


"It's  a  beautiful  business  proposi 
tion,"  he  added.  "A  magnificent 
money  making  scheme,  a— 

The  bachelor's  eyes  had  dropped 
to  the  widow's  and  he  stopped  short. 

"Go  on,"  she  remarked  in  a  cold, 
sweet  voice  that  trickled  down  his 
back. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  protested  lamely, 
"when  you  marry  for  money  you  gen 
erally  get  it,  don't  you?  But  when 
you  marry  for  love — it's  like  putting 
your  last  dollar  on  a  long  shot." 

"If  you  mean  there's  a  delightful 
uncertainty  about  it?"  began  the 
widow. 

"There's  nothing  half  so  delight 
ful,"  declared  the  bachelor,  "as 
betting  on  a  sure  thing.  Now,  the 
man  or  woman  who  marries  for 
money— 

[62] 


J«     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

"Earns  it,"  broke  in  the  widow  fer 
vently.  "Earns  it  by  the  sweat  of  the 
brow.  The  man  who  marries  a 
woman  for  her  money  is  a  white 
slave,  a  bond  servant,  a  travesty  on 
manhood.  For  every  dollar  he  re 
ceives  he  gives  a  full  equivalent  in 
self-respect  and  independence,  and 
all  the  things  dearest  to  a  real  man." 

"A  real  man,"  remarked  the  bache 
lor,  taking  out  his  pipe  and  lighting 
it,  "wouldn't  marry  a  woman  for  her 
money.  It's  woman  to  whom  mar 
riage  presents  the  alluring  financial 
prospect." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  responded  the 
widow,  crossing  her  arms  behind  her 
head  and  leaning  thoughtfully 
against  the  tree  at  her  back.  "In 
these  days  of  typewriting  and  sten 
ography  and  manicuring  and  trained 

[63] 


THE    WIDOW 


nursing,  matrimony  offers  about  the 
poorest  returns,  from  a  business 
standpoint,  of  any  feminine  occupa 
tion  —  the  longest  hours,  the  hardest 
work,  the  greatest  drain  on  your 
patience,  the  most  exacting  master 
and  the  smallest  pay,  to  say  nothing 
of  no  holidays  and  not  even  an  even 
ing  off." 

"Nor  a  chance  to  'give  notice'  if 
you  don't  like  your  job,"  added  the 
bachelor  sympathetically. 

"If  the  average  business  man," 
went  on  the  widow,  ignoring  the  in 
terruption,  "demanded  half  of  his 
stenographer  that  he  demands  of  his 
wife  he  couldn't  keep  her  three 
hours." 

"And  yet,"  remarked  the  bache 
lor,  pulling  on  his  pipe  meditatively, 
"the  average  stenographer  is  only  too 

[64] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

glad  to  exchange  her  position  for  that 
of  wife  whenever  she  gets— 

The  jangle  of  gold  bangles,  as  the 
widow  brought  her  arms  down  from 
behind  her  head  and  sat  up  straight, 
interrupted  his  speech. 

"Whenever  she  gets— 

The  widow  picked  up  her  ruffles 
and  started  to  rise. 

"Whenever  she  gets — ready,"  fin 
ished  the  bachelor  quickly. 

The  widow  sat  down  again  and 
leaned  back  against  the  tree. 

"How  perfectly  you  illustrate  my 
point,"  she  remarked  sweetly. 

"Oh,"  said  the  bachelor,  taking  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  "did  you  have 
a  point?" 

"That  marriage  is  something 
higher  and  finer  than  a  business 
proposition,  Mr.  Travers,  and  that 

[65] 


THE    WIDOW 


there  are  lots  of  reasons  for  marrying 
besides  financial  ones." 

"Oh,  yes,"  agreed  the  bachelor, 
"there  is  folly  and  feminine  coercion 
and  because  you  can't  get  out  of  it, 
and- 

"As  for  marriage  as  a  money  af 
fair,"  pursued  the  widow  without 
waiting,  "it's  just  the  money  side  of 
it  that  causes  all  the  squabbles  and 
unhappiness.  If  they've  got  it,  they 
are  always  quarreling  over  it  and  if 
they  haven't  got  it  they  are  always 
quarreling  for  it.  The  Castellanes 
and  M  a  rlbo  roughs  who  fight  over 
their  bills  and  their  debts  aren't  any 
happier  than  the  Murphys  and  the 
Hooligans  who  fight  over  the  price 
of  a  pint  of  beer.  It's  just  as  diffi 
cult  to  know  what  to  do  with  money 
when  you've  got  it  as  it  is  to  know 


J»     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     «* 

what  to  do  without  it  when  you 
haven't  got  it;  and  a  million  dollars 
between  husband  and  wife  is  a  big 
ger  gulf  than  a  $10  a  week  salary. 
It's  not  a  question  of  the  amount  of 
money,  but  the  question  of  who  shall 
spend  it  that  makes  all  the  trouble." 

"But  don't  you  see,"  argued  the 
bachelor,  sitting  up  suddenly  and 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 
"that  all  that  would  be  eliminated  if 
people  would  make  marriage  a  busi 
ness  proposition?  For  instance,  if 
two  people  would  discuss  the  situ 
ation  rationally  and  make  the  terms 
before  marriage;  if  the  man  would 
state  the  services  he  requires  and  the 
woman  would  demand  the  compen 
sation  she  thinks  she  deserves— 

"Ugh!"  shuddered  the  widow, 
putting  her  hands  over  her  eyes, 


J*  THEWIDOW  J* 

"that  would  be  like  writing  your 
epitaph  and  choosing  the  style  of 
your  coffin." 

"And  every  man,"  pursued  the 
bachelor,  "would  be  willing  to  give 
his  wife  her  board  and  room  and  a 
salary  adequate  to  her  services  and  to 
his  income— 

"And  to  let  her  eat  with  the  fam 
ily,"  jeered  the  widow. 

"Well,"  finished  the  bachelor, 
"then  marriage  wouldn't  offer  the 
poorest  returns  in  the  professional 
market.  And,  besides,"  he  added, 
"there  would  be  fewer  wives  sitting 
about  in  apartment  hotels  holding 
their  hands  and  ordering  the  bell 
boys  around, while  their  husbands  are 
down  town  fretting  and  struggling 
themselves  into  bankruptcy;  and 
fewer  husbands  spending  their  nights 

[68] 


v*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J« 

and  their  money  out  with  the  boys, 
while  their  wives  are  bending  over 
the  cook  stove  and  the  sewing 
machine,  trying  to  make  ends  meet 
on  nothing  a  year." 

"But  that,"  cried  the  widow,  tak 
ing  her  hands  down  from  her  eyes, 
"would  mean  spending  your  court 
ship  talking  stocks  and  bonds  and 
dividends!" 

"And  the  rest  of  your  life  forget 
ting  them  and  talking  love,"  declared 
the  bachelor,  triumphantly. 

The  widow  looked  up  specula- 
tively. 

"Well — perhaps,"  she  acquiesced, 
"if  courtship  were  more  of  a  busi 
ness  proposition  marriage  would  be 
less  of  a  failure.  Anyhow,  you'd 
know  in  advance  just  what  a  man 

[69] 


<*  THE    WIDOW  J« 

considered  you  worth  in  dollars  and 
cents." 

"And  you'd  eliminate  all  the  un 
certainty,"  added  the  bachelor. 

"And  the  chance  of  having  to  beg 
for  your  carfare  and  pin  money." 

"And  of  having  to  go  bankrupt 
for  matinee  tickets  and  Easter  hats." 

"And  of  being  asked  what  you  did 
with  your  allowance." 

"Or  of  how  you  acquired  your 
breath  or  lost  your  watch." 

"The  trouble  is,"  sighed  the 
widow,  "that  no  man  would  ever  be 
broad  enough  or  generous  enough  to 
make  such  a  proposition." 

"And  no  woman  would  ever  be 
sensible  enough  to  listen  to  it." 

"Nonsense.  Any  woman  would. 
It's  just  the  sort  of  thing  we've  been 
longing  for." 

[70] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Well,"  said  the  bachelor,  turning 
on  his  back  and  looking  up  at  the 
widow  speculatively,  "let  me  see— 
you  could  have  the  violet  room." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  widow. 

"It's  got  a  good  south  view,"  pro 
tested  the  bachelor,  "and  besides  it's 
not  over  the  kitchen." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 
The  widow  sat  up  straight  and  her 
bangles  jingled  warningly. 

"And  you  could  have  Saturday 
and  Wednesday  evenings  out.  Those 
are  my  club  nights." 

"How  dare  you!" 

"And  any  salary  you  might  ask— 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Billy 
Travers?" 

"I'm  making  you  a  proposal  of 
marriage,"  explained  the  bachelor  in 

[71] 


THE    WIDOW 


an  injured  tone.  "Don't  you  recog 
nize  it?" 

The  widow  rose  silently,  lifted  the 
sheet  of  paper  in  her  hands  and  tore 
it  to  pieces. 

"Was  that  your  poem?"  inquired 
the  bachelor  as  he  watched  the 
breeze  carry  the  fragments  away  over 
the  grass. 

The  widow  shook  out  her  ruffles 
and  picked  up  her  hat. 

"You've  taken  all  the  poetry  out  of 
it,"  she  retorted,  as  she  fled  toward 
the  house. 

The  bachelor  looked  after  her  un 
decidedly  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
leaned  back  lazily  and  blinked  up  at 
the  sky  between  the  leaves. 

"And  this,"  he  said  softly,  "is  the 
white  man's  burden." 


[72] 


()l- "VK   taken    all    the    poetry 
out  of  it." 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

VI 

SIGNS  AND  COUNTERSIGNS  OF  LOVE. 

4  4  T  F  there  were  only  some  way," 

began    the    bachelor,    gazing 

thoughtfully  out  of  the  win- 

dow  of   the   dining  car,   "in 

which    a    fellow    could    prove    his 

love " 

"There  are  millions  of  them  I"  de 
clared  the  widow,  sipping  her  con 
somme  daintily. 

"Those  mediaeval  fellows  had  such 
an  advantage  over  us,"  complained 
the  bachelor.  "When  a  chap  loved 
a  girl,  all  he  had  to  do  to  prove  it  was 
to  get  another  chap  to  say  he  didn't, 
and  then  to  break  the  other  chap's 
head.  That  was  a  sure  sign." 

"And  it  was  so  easy,"  remarked  the 
widow. 

[73] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  <* 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  bachelor,  enthu 
siastically.  "Is  there  anybody  whose 
head  you  particularly  want  broken? 
I  feel  remarkably  like  fighting." 

"Of  course,  you  do,"  said  the 
widow  sympathetically.  "The  fight 
ing  spirit  is  born  in  every  man.  But 
duelling  isn't  a  sign  of  love;  it's  a 
sign  of  egotism,  hurt  pride,  the  spirit 
of  competition,  the  dog-in-the-man 
ger  feeling.  Besides,  it's  out  of  fash 


ion." 


"Well,"  sighed  the  bachelor,  "then 
I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  save  your 
life  or — die  for  you." 

"You  might,"  said  the  widow, 
nodding  encouragingly,  "but  it 
wouldn't  prove  anything — except 
that  you  had  a  sense  of  the  pictur 
esque  and  dramatic.  Suppose  you 
did  save  my  life;  wouldn't  you  do  as 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     «* 

much  for  any  man,  woman  or  child, 
or  even  any  little  stray  dog  who 
might  happen  to  fall  out  of  a  boat  or 
be  caught  in  a  fire,  or  get  under  the 
feet  of  a  runaway?" 

"I've  got  it!"  cried  the  bachelor, 
"I'll  write  a  book  of  poems  and 
dedicate  them  to  you." 

The  widow  toyed  with  her  spoon. 

"You've  done  that  to — several  girls 
before,"  she  remarked  ungratefully. 

"That's  it!"  cried  the  bachelor. 
"How  is  a  man  going  to  tell  when 
he's  in  love  when  he  feels  the  same 
way — every  time?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  your  soup?" 
asked  the  widow,  glancing  at  the  un 
touched  plate  in  front  of  the  bache 
lor. 

The  bachelor  picked  up  his  spoon 
languidly. 

[75] 


J*  THE    WIDOW 


"No,"  he  said,  "but- 

"Because  if  you  had,"  said  the 
widow,  "it  would  have  been  a  proof." 

"A— what?" 

"A  proof,"  repeated  the  widow. 
"Forgetting  to  eat  your  meals  is  the 
first  sign  of  love.  A  man  may  write 
poetry  and  swear  love  by  all  the 
planets  separately;  but  if  he  sits  down 
opposite  you  an  hour  afterward  and 
orders  mutton  chops  and  gravy  and 
devours  them  to  the  last  crumb, 
either  he  doesn't  mean  what  he  says 
or  doesn't  know  what  he  is  talking 
about.  When  he  lets  his  breakfast 
grow  cold  and  forgets  to  go  out  to  his 
lunch  and  loses  his  interest  in  his  din 
ner  it's  a  sure  sign  of  love." 

"It  might  be  a  sign  of  dyspepsia," 
suggested  the  bachelor  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  well,"  proceeded  the  widow, 

[76] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

sipping  her  soup  leisurely,  "there  are 
other  signs  besides  a  lost  appetite." 

The  bachelor  looked  hopeful. 

"Is  one  of  them  smelling  violets  all 
day,  when  there  aren't  any  'round; 
and  feeling  a  funny  jump  in  your 
throat  every  time  you  catch  sight  of  a 
violet  hat;  and  suddenly  discovering 
you  have  written,  'Send  me  eight 
quarts  of  violets  and  a  widow,'  in 
stead  of  eight  quarts  of  gasoline  and 
a  patent  pump'?" 

The  widow  leaned  so  far  over  her 
soup  that  her  eyes  were  completely 
shaded  by  the  brim  of  her  violet  hat. 

"Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "loss  of 
reason  is  one  of  them — and  loss  of 
memory." 

"And  loss  of  sleep?" 

"And  loss  of  common  sense." 

"And  loss  of  self-respect?" 

[77] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  Jit 

"And  of  your  powers  of  conversa 
tion." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  the  bachelor,  "a 
man  in  love  can  say  more  fool 
things— 

The  widow  put  down  her  spoon 
emphatically. 

"A  man  in  love,"  she  contradicted, 
"can't  talk  at  all?  It's  not  the  things 
he  says,  but  the  things  he  isn't  able  to 
say;  the  things  that  choke  right  up 
in  his  throat— 

"I've  had  that!"  interrupted  the 
bachelor. 

"Had— what?" 

"The  'love-lump'  in  the  throat." 

"And  did  you  ever  go  up  stairs  to 
light  the  gas  and  turn  on  the  water 
instead;  or  walk  three  blocks  in  the 
wrong  direction  without  knowing  it; 
or  hunt  ten  minutes  for  your  shoes 

[78] 


<#     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J« 

and  then  discover  it  was  your  collar 
button  or  your  hat  that  you  had  lost?" 

"Or  add  a  column  of  figures  and 
get  a  poem  for  the  answer;  or  break 
your  neck  running  to  the  office  and 
then  have  to  sit  down  and  think  what 
you  came  down  early  for;  or  begin  a 
business  letter  'Dearest  Smith'  and 
drop  it  in  the  box  without  a  stamp, 
or  read  your  paper  upside  down, 
or " 

"You've  got  it!"  cried  the  widow. 

"I  know  it,"  sighed  the  bachelor, 
"dreadfully!" 

"The  idea,  I  mean,"  said  the 
widow,  blushing.  "Those  are  the 
real  proofs  of  love. 

"But,"  protested  the  bachelor, 
"they  aren't  impressive.  How  are 
you  going  to  let  the  girl  know— 

[79] 


"A  girl  always  knows,"  declared 
the  widow. 

"Are  you  going  to  say,  'Araminta, 
darling,  I  put  on  odd  socks  this  morn 
ing  and  salted  my  coffee  and  sugared 
my  chop.  Accept  this  as  a  proof?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  the  widow, 
laughing,  aof  course  not!  But  when 
you  arrive  at  her  house  half  an  hour 
before  the  time  and  appear  at  odd 
and  embarrassing  moments  without  a 
rational  excuse  and  get  mixed  on 
your  dates  and  look  at  her  as  if  she 
were  the  moon  or  a  ghost,  and  might 
disappear  at  any  moment,  and  sit  for 
hours  gazing  into  space  and  moisten 
ing  your  lips  in  the  hope  that  you 
will  think  of  something  to  say— 

"She  knows  that  she's  got  you!" 
groaned  the  bachelor. 

"Oh,  she  may  not,"    declared   the 

[80] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

widow,  cheerfully.  "She  may  not 
know  anything.  She  may  be  in  love 
herself." 

"That's  it!"  protested  the  bachelor, 
"knowing  you're  in  love  is  only  half 
the  trouble.  How  are  you  going  to 
know  when  a  girl  has  reached  the 
love  stage?  How  are  you  going  to 
know  that  she  is  not  just  dangling 
you,  or  marrying  you  for  your 
money?  They're  so  clever  and  wise 
and  coquettish  and— 

"When  a  girl  is  in  love,"  said  the 
widow,  "she  ceases  being  clever  and 
wise  and  coquettish.  She  becomes 
mooney  and  silent  and  begins  to 
notice  things  about  you  that  you 
never  knew  yourself,  such  as  that 
your  nose  is  like  Napoleon's  or  that 
you  have  a  profile  like  E.  H.  Sothern 
and  shoulders  like  Hackett's  and  hair 

[81] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  J* 

like  Kyrle  Bellew's.  She  never  keeps 
you  waiting,  but  is  always  dressed 
and  sitting  in  the  parlor  an  hour  be 
fore  you  arrive  and  is  never  in  a 
hurry  to  get  home  and  will  walk  for 
blocks  beside  you  in  the  rain  with  her 
best  hat  on  without  caring.  She  be 
gins  to  'mother'  you— 

"To  what?" 

"To  caution  you  about  getting 
your  feet  wet  and  avoiding  a  draught 
and  wearing  your  overcoat  and  to 
look  at  you  every  time  you  leave  her 
as  if  she  was  afraid  you  would  die 
before  morning  and — Mr.  Travers, 
do  you  know  I  believe  this  train  has 
reached  Jersey  City?" 

"Why — why — so  it  has!  Waiter! 
Waiter!  Where  in  thunder  is  that 
blockhead?  Why  hasn't  he  brought 
us  the  rest  of  the  dinner?" 

[82] 


•£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      Jt 

"You  forgot  to  order  it!"  said  the 
widow,  looking  maliciously  up  under 
her  hat. 

"Jersey  City!  Last  stop!"  called 
the  conductor  from  the  door. 

The  bachelor  put  down  his  nap 
kin  and  rose. 

"Check,  sir?"  asked  the  waiter, 
with  accusing  eyes. 

"Were  you  forgetting  to  pay?"  in 
quired  the  widow,  softly. 

The  bachelor  thrust  a  bill  into  the 
waiter's  hands  and  started  down  the 
aisle,  followed  by  the  widow. 

"You  forgot  your  change,"  re 
marked  the  widow,  as  they  stepped 
into  the  depot. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  the  bache 
lor.  "Where  are  your  wraps?" 

The  widow  clutched  his  sleeve. 

[83] 


THE    WIDOW 


"I  —  I  —  left  them  in  the  dining 
car,"  she  stammered. 

The  bachelor  gazed  down  at  the 
top  of  the  violet  hat  with  a  trium 
phant  smile. 

"Oh,  do  go  back  and  try  to  get 
them!"  moaned  the  widow  glancing 
wildly  at  the  train,  which  by  this  time 
was  being  switched  onto  a  side  track. 

"It  will  be  at  the  risk  of  my  life," 
declared  the  bachelor,  "but  if  you 
want  —  any  more— 

"More  —  what?"  asked  the  widow, 
distractedly. 

"Proof,"  said  the  bachelor. 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  said  the 
widow,  as  she  spied  an  excited  porter 
running  toward  them,  clutching  a 
pongee  coat,  a  silver  hand  bag  and 
a  violet  parasol. 

"These,"  said  the  bachelor,  taking 

[84] 


>*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

them  tenderly  from  the  porter  and 
tipping  him,  "are  the  most  substan 
tial  signs  of— 

"A  lost  head,"  said  the  widow 
quickly. 

"Or  a  lost  heart,"  added  the  bache 
lor,  as  they  crossed  the  station  and 
stepped  fatuously  on  to — the  wrong 
ferryboat. 


[85] 


THE    WIDOW 


VII 

A  SHORT  CUT. 

«*¥  T7  THAT  ought  I  to  do," 

%   \    I     asked      the     widow, 

^y^y       carefully   licking   all 

the  gum  off  the  flap 

of  a  violet  envelope  and  then  trying 

to  make  it  stick,  "to  a  silly  boy,  who 

—asked  me  for  a  kiss?" 

"What  ought  you  to  do?"  repeated 
the  bachelor,  laying  down  his  cigar 
and  regarding  the  widow  severely. 
"Refuse  him,  of  course." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  agreed  the 
widow,  rubbing  the  envelope  spas 
modically  with  the  end  of  her  hand 
kerchief,  "but  what  ought  I  do  to 
teach  him  better?" 

[86] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAX     J* 

"I  can't  think  of  anything — bet 
ter,"  replied  the  bachelor,  charitably 
reaching  for  the  violet  envelope  and 
closing  it  firmly  with  his  fist. 

"How  about  just  taking  the  kiss- 
without  asking  for  it?"  inquired  the 
widow  naively,  as  she  leaned  luxuri 
ously  back  among  the  cushions  of  the 
divan.  "Wouldn't  that  have  been 
better — for  him,  I  mean?" 

"Would  it?"  The  bachelor  looked 
the  widow  straight  in  the  eye. 

"Well,"  replied  the  widow  weakly, 
toying  with  some  fringe  on  a  satin 
sofa  pillow  and  carefully  avoiding 
the  bachelor's  gaze,  "he  would  have 
gotten  it." 

"And  now  he  never  will,"  rejoined 
the  bachelor  with  a  confidence  he  did 
not  feel. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."    The  widow 

[87] 


THE    WIDOW 


became  suddenly  interested  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  fringe  on  the 
satin  sofa  pillow.  "But  it  isn't  the 
man  who  asks  a  woman  for  a  kiss  or 
—or  anything  —  who  gets  it.  It's  the 
man  who  takes  for  granted." 

"Takes—  what?" 

"Takes  her  by  surprise,  Mr.  Trav- 
ers,"  explained  the  widow,  "and 
doesn't  give  her  time  to  think  or  to 
say  no.  The  short  cut  to  managing  a 
woman  is  not  argument  or  reason. 
It's  action.  She  may  like  to  be 
coaxed,  but  it's  the  man  who  orders 
her  about  whom  she  admires  —  and 
obeys.  Eve  has  never  forgotten  that 
she  is  only  a  rib  and  when  Adam  for 
gets  it,  she— 

"Makes  him  feel  like  a  small  part 
of  the  vertebras,"  interpolated  the 
bachelor  tentatively. 

[88] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

"Naturally,"  returned  the  widow, 
tying  the  sofa  pillow  fringe  in  a  hard 
knot  and  then  untying  it  again,  "when 
a  man  comes  to  her  on  his  knees  she 
is  clever  enough  to  keep  him  there; 
but  when  he  comes  to  her  with  a 
scepter  in  his  hand  and  determina 
tion  in  his  eye,  she  has  a  wholesome 
respect  for  him.  It's  not  the  man 
who  begs  but  the  one  who  demands 
that  receives.  It's  not  the  man  who 
asks  a  girl  to  marry  him,  but  the  one 
who  tells  her  that  she  is  going  to 
marry  him,  who  gets  her.  It's  not 
the  husband  who  requests  the 
privilege  of  carrying  a  latch-key  or 
staying  down  town  at  night  who  can 
do  so  without  fear  and  trembling,  but 
the  one  who  calmly  takes  the  latch 
key  and  telephones  his  wife  that  he  is 
going  to  stay  down  town  and  then 

[89] 


THE    WIDOW 


rings  off  as  though  the  matter  were 
settled.  The  question  of  who's  going 
to  have  the  whip  hand  in  love  or 
matrimony  is  decided  the  very  first 
time  a  man  looks  at  a  woman  and  lets 
her  know  who's  master." 

The  bachelor  flicked  the  ashes  off 
his  cigar  and  regarded  the  widow 
curiously. 

"Are  you  talking  Christian 
Science  or  Hypnotism?"  he  inquired 
patiently. 

"Neither,"  replied  the  widow, 
"I'm  talking  facts,  Mr.  Travers. 
Haven't  you  ever  seen  a  little  short- 
legged  man  with  a  snub  nose  married 
to  a  beautiful,  queenly  creature, 
whom  he  ordered  about  as  if  she 
were  the  original  Greek  slave  and 
who  obeyed  him  as  if  he  were  Nero 
himself,  and  adored  him  in  propor- 

[90] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      ^ 

tion  to  his  overbearing  qualities? 
And  have  you  never  seen  a  magnifi 
cent,  six-foot-two  specimen  of  mas 
culine  humanity,  who  was  first  in 
war  and  first  everywhere  but  in  his 
own  home,  where  he  was  afraid  to 
put  his  feet  on  a  chair  or  light  a  pipe 
or  make  an  original  remark,  because 
some  little  dried-up  runt  of  a  woman 
had  him  hypnotized  into  believing 
that  he  was  the  thirty-second  verte 
bras  and  she  all  the  rest  of  the  bones 
and  sinew  of  the  human  race?  A 
woman  is  like  a  darky,  who  fancies 
that'freedom' means  three-quarters  of 
the  sidewalk,  or  a  small  boy  who  im 
agines  that  doing  as  he  pleases  means 
smashing  his  sister's  toys  and  stealing 
sweets  from  the  pantry.  Put  her  in 
her  place  and  she  will  stay  there;  but 
give  her  an  inch  of  power  and  she'll 

[911 


THE    WIDOW 


take  an  ell  of  liberty  and  boss  you  off 
your  own  door  sill.  The  biggest, 
boldest  woman  that  ever  lived  is  built 
like  a  barge,  to  be  towed;  and  any 
little  man  who  puffs  up  enough  steam 
and  makes  a  loud  enough  noise  can 
attach  her  to  himself  and  tow  her  all 
the  way  up  the  river  of  life." 

The  bachelor  laid  down  his  cigar 
and  gazed  at  the  widow  in  awe. 

"And  I  never  knew  it,"  he  whis 
pered  huskily. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  widow,  be 
ginning  to  toy  with  the  fringe  again, 
"that  you've  been  asking  girls  to  kiss 
you,  all  this  time." 

"Not  all  the  time,"  protested  the 
bachelor. 

"And,  of  course,"  continued  the 
widow  maliciously,  "they've  all  re 
fused  you." 

[92] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     * 

"Not  all"  repeated  the  bachelor, 
pensively. 

"What?"  The  widow  glanced  up 
quickly. 

"Once,"  explained  the  bachelor 
apologetically,  "I  didn't  have  a  bald 
spot." 

"When  a  man  asks  for  a  kiss,"  pur 
sued  the  widow,  thoughtfully,  "a 
girl  HAS  to  refuse  him ;  but  when  he 
takes  it— 

"She  has  to  take  it,  too,"  said  the 
bachelor,  chuckling. 

"Would  you  mind,"  asked  the 
widow,  ignoring  the  last  flippant  bit 
of  persiflage  and  picking  up  the 
violet  envelope,  "posting  a  letter  for 
me?" 

"May  I  look  at  the  address?"  de 
manded  the  bachelor. 

193] 


..* 


"It's  to  the  boy,"  began  the  widow, 
"who — who— 

"Took  the  roundabout  way?"  fin 
ished  the  bachelor,  helpfully. 

The  widow  nodded. 

"I  have  written  him,"  she  ex 
plained,  "that  he  mustn't — that  it 
would  be  best  if  he  wouldn't  come 
here  any  more.  That  will  keep  him 
in  his  place,  I  think." 

"On  his  knees?"  inquired  the 
bachelor  sarcastically. 

"And  I  told  him,"  proceeded  the 
widow,  with  a  reproachful  glance  at 
the  bachelor,  "how  very  rude  and 
foolish " 

"Did  you  explain,"  interrupted  the 
bachelor,  "that  the  foolishness  con 
sisted  in  not  taking  the  kiss?" 

"Mr.  Travers!" 

[94] 


•-*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J» 

"And  that  the  rudeness  lay  en 
tirely  in  assuming  that  you  might  not 
want  to  be— 

"How  dare  you !"  cried  the  widow, 
flaming  as  red  as  the  scarlet  satin  sofa 
pillow  behind  her  head.  "I  gave  him 
a  dreadful  scolding!"  she  added, 
looking  pensively  at  the  sealed  note 
and  toying  with  the  edge  of  the  flap, 
as  though  she  half  wished  it  would 
come  open  again. 

"In  other  words,"  remarked  the 
bachelor  laconically,  "having  him 
down,  you  proceeded  to  wipe  your 
feet  on  him.  Since  he  had  turned  the 
left  cheek,  you  made  him  turn  all  the 
way  round,  so  that  you  could  stick 
pins  in  his  back  and  make  him  feel 
like  the  thirty-second  vertebrae 
and- 

"I  had  to,  Mr.  Travers,"  cried  the 

[95] 


THE    WIDOW 


widow  pleadingly.  "It  was  my  duty." 

"Your—  what?" 

"To  teach  him  a  lesson,"  explained 
the  widow  promptly.  "He's  got  to 
learn  that  in  the  situation  between 
man  and  woman  there's  only  one 
throne  and  that  whoever  gets  up  on 
it  first  wields  the  sceptre.  He's  got 
to  learn  that  the  conquest  of  woman 
is  not,  like  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  an 
affair  of  strategy,  but  like  the  Battle 
of  Bunker  Hill  or  Sennacherib— 

"Or  the  Boston  Tea  Party  or  the 
Massacre  of  the  Innocents,"  broke  in 
the  bachelor.  "But  aren't  you  a  little 
hard  on  the  girl?  If  you  get  him  too 
well  trained  he'll  beat  her." 

"Well,"  replied  the  widow 
promptly,  "if  he  does  she'll  adore 
him.  Besides,  it's  much  better  to 
have  the  matrimonial  medicine  ad- 

[96] 


&     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

ministered  in  allopathic  doses  than  in 
the  little  homeopathic  pellets  of  cau 
tion  and  deceit,  and  lies  and  argu 
ments  which  end  in  the  divorce  court, 
and  a  woman  enjoys  being  bossed  and 
bullied  and  ordered  about  by  the  man 
she  loves  quite  as  much  as  he  enjoys 
the  bossing  and  bullying.  It's  her 
natural  instinct  to  look  up,  but  she 
can't  look  up  to  a  man  who  is  figura 
tively  at  her  feet.  She  may  struggle 
against  the  man  who  attempts  to  con 
quer  her  by  main  force,  but  she  en 
joys  being  conquered  just  the  same, 
and  it  takes  a  great  burden  off  her 
soul  to  be  able  to  lay  her  head  on  a 
broad,  masculine  shoulder  and  to 
know  that  every  affair  in  life  is  going 
to  be  settled  and  decided  for  her. 

"She  may  talk  about  thinking  for 
herself  and  voting  and  all  that,  but 

[97] 


THE    WIDOW 


she  is  always  glad  enough  to  sit  back 
and  be  thought  for  and  voted  for  by 
some  man  who  has  magnetized  her 
into  believing  him  the  incarnation  of 
intelligence.  And  any  man  can  do  it. 
If  the  average  husband  only  had  a 
little  more  nerve  and  fewer  nerves,  he 
could  master  his  wife  with  one  hand 
and  his  eyes  shut.  The  heathen  Turk 
can  get  along  better  with  a  whole 
harem  full  of  women  than  the  civil 
ized  man  gets  along  with  one  lone, 
lorn  wife.  It  isn't  because  he's  any 
wiser  or  cleverer  or  kinder,  but  be 
cause  the  first  Turk  learned  the  short 
cut  to  managing  a  woman  and  passed 
the  secret  down  in  the  family.  They 
don't  ask  them  to  marry  them  over 
there,  they  order  them  ;  they  don't  re 
quest  them  to  run  an  errand  or  sew 
on  a  button,  they  merely  wave  their 

[98] 


J'VK      got      the      courage      at 
last — and   the   audacity." 


«5«     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      £ 

hands  and  the  women  fight  for  the 
privilege  of  obeying.  They  have 
known  for  ages  what  the  white  man 
never  seems  to  have  learned,  that  the 
way  to  take  a  woman  is  by  storm  and 
the  way  to  hold  her  is  by  force  and 
that  any  man  can  manage  any  woman 
if  he  only  knows  how  and  has  the 
audacity  and  the  courage — What  are 
you  trying  to  do,  Mr.  Travers?" 

"Pm  taking  a  short  cut  to  the 
divan,"  replied  the  bachelor,  sitting 
down  beside  the  widow,  "and  I've 
got  the  courage  at  last— 

"How  dare  you,  Billy  Travers!" 

"And  the  audacity— 

"Stop!  Stop!" 

"And  the  nerve— 

"Mr.  Taylor,"  announced  the 
maid,  appearing  suddenly  between 
the  portieres  at  this  critical  moment. 


J*  THE    WIDOW  <* 

"Oh,  mercy  T'  cried  the  widow, 
"and  my  hair  is  just— 

"Am  I  intruding?"  asked  a  fresh- 
faced  young  man,  entering  briskly 
between  the  portieres. 

"Not  at  all,  Bobby,"  said  the 
widow  sweetly,  holding  out  one  hand 
and  feeling  her  back  hair  with  the 
other.  "You  arrived  just  at  the— 
psychological  moment.  We  have 
been  talking  about  you  for  the  last 
half  hour." 


[100] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J» 

VIII 
AFTER  LOVE—  -(?) 

""W  TT  THY  is  it,"  asked  the 

\  \  I    widow,  swinging  her 

%/^y      chatelaine    pensively 

as  she  strolled  down 

the  avenue  beside  the  bachelor,  "that 

the  man  who  is  most  in  love  is  most 

apt  to  get  over  it  suddenly?" 

The  bachelor  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  the  pretty  pair  of  ankles  across 
the  street  and  glanced  down  at  the 
widow  with  the  lenient  smile  of 
superior  wisdom. 

"Why  is  it,"  he  retorted,  "that  the 
man  who  drinks  the  most  champagne 
at  dinner  has  the  worst  headache  next 
morning?" 

"That  isn't  any  explanation  at  all, 

[101] 


<*  THE    WIDOW  <* 

Mr.  Travers."  The  widow's  chate 
laine  jingled  impatiently.  "Cham 
pagne  is  intoxicating." 

"So  is  love." 

"Champagne  leaves  you  with  an — 
an  all-gone  feeling." 

"And  love  leaves  you  with — 'that 
tired  feeling'." 

"Not  me,"  said  the  widow 
promptly,  "I  always  feel  exhilarated 
after — after— 

"Afterwards,"  finished  the  bache 
lor  helpfully.  "But  you're  a  woman. 
It's  the  man  who  has  the  'tired  feel- 
ing'." 

"What  is  it  like?"  persisted  the 
widow. 

"Well,"  the  bachelor  flipped  his 
cane  thoughtfully,  "did  you  ever  eat 
a  fourteen  course  dinner,  and  then  go 
to  Sherry's  afterward  for  supper  and 

[102] 


«£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

then  go  to  Delmonico's  for  a  snack 
and  to  Rector's  for— 

"I've  been  through  it,"  sighed  the 
widow. 

"You  didn't  want  any  more,  did 
you?"  asked  the  bachelor  sympatheti 
cally.  "That's  the  way  a  man  feels 
when  he's  had  enough  of  love — or  a 


woman." 


"But — but  love  isn't  indigestible." 

"Too  much  of  anything — love  or 
dinner  or  champagne — is  apt  to  take 
away  your  appetite.  And  too  much 
of  a  woman  is  sure  to  make  you  hate 
the  sight  of  her." 

The  widow's  chatelaine  was  danc 
ing  madly  in  the  afternoon  sunlight. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  she  said  wither- 
ingly,  "that  it  would  be  possible  for 
a  woman  to  get  too  much  of  a  man!" 

"No,"  agreed  the  bachelor  cheer- 

L  103  J 


J*  THE     WIDOW  <* 

fully,  as  he  squinted  at  another  pair 
of  pretty  ankles,  "women  are  senti 
mental  topers.  They  sip  their  wine 
or  their  sentiment  slowly  and  com 
fortably;  they  don't  gulp  it  down  like 
a  man.  That's  why  the  man  has 
usually  finished  the  bottle  before  the 
woman  has  touched  her  glass.  He  is 
ready  to  turn  out  the  lights  and  put 
an  end  to  the  affair  just  as  she  has 
begun  to  get  really  interested.  But," 
and  the  bachelor  turned  suddenly 
upon  the  widow,  "who  is  the  man? 
Show  him  to  me!"  and  he  brought 
his  cane  down  fiercely  on  the  side 
walk. 

"Wh-what  man?"  asked  the 
widow,  turning  pink  to  the  tips  of 
her  ears. 

"The  man  who  has  jilt — gotten 
over  it.  I  don't  see  how  it's  possible," 

[104] 


v*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

he  added  thoughtfully,  "with  you." 

"Me!"  The  widow's  voice  was  as 
chill  and  crisp  as  the  autumn  air.  "I 
wish,"  she  added  musingly,  "that  I 
knew  how  to  patch  it  up." 

"That's  right!"  retorted  the  bache 
lor.  "Try  to  revive  his  interest  in 
champagne  by  offering  it  to  him— 
the  morning  after.  What  he  needs, 
my  dear  lady,  is — ice.  When  he  has 
had  a  little  ice  and  a  little  tabasco 
sauce— 

"He  may  want  more  champagne?" 
asked  the  widow  hopefully. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  bachelor,  swing 
ing  his  cane  cheerfully,  "but  not  from 
the  same  bottle.  Will  women  ever 
learn,"  he  mused,  "that  it  is  as  im 
possible  to  revive  a  man's  interest  in 
a  woman  he  has  completely  gotten 
over  loving  as  to  make  him  want  stale 

[105] 


THEWIDOW 


champagne  with  all  the  fizz  gone  out 
of  it?" 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  the  widow. 
"A  woman  often  falls  in  love  with 
the  same  man  twice." 

"Because  she  never  falls  too  much 
in  love  with  him  —  once,"  explained 
the  bachelor. 

The  widow's  chatelaine  rattled  in 
dignantly. 

"Nonsense!"  she  cried,  "A  woman's 
love  is  always  stronger  and  deeper 
than  a  man's." 

"But  it  isn't  so  effervescent.  She  is 
a  natural  miser  and  she  hoards  her 
feelings.  A  man  flings  his  sentiment 
about  like  a  prodigal  and  naturally 
when  it's  all  gone  —  there  isn't  any 
left." 

"Is  that  when  he  gets  the  'tired 

[106] 


<#     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

feeling?'  "  inquired  the  widow  sym 
pathetically. 

"Yes,"  said  the  bachelor,  "and 
nothing  is  worse  than  waking  up  in 
the  morning  with  a  dark  brown  taste 
in  your  mouth — to  find  the  woman 
standing  before  you  offering  you 
more  champagne.  But  she  always 
does.  A  woman  never  seems  to  know 
when  the  logical  conclusion  of  a  love 
affair  has  arrived.  She  clings  with 
all  her  strength  to  the  tattered  rem 
nants  of  sentiment  and  shuts  her  eyes 
and  tries  to  make  believe  it  isn't 
morning,  when  she  ought  to  go 
away— 

"And  let  him  sleep  it  off,"  sug 
gested  the  widow. 

"That's  it,"  agreed  the  bachelor,"! 
once  knew  a  man  who  was  infatuated 
with  a  woman  who  used  attar  of  roses 

[107] 


<*  THEWIDOW  J* 

on  her  gloves  and  things.  When  he 
woke  up — I  beg  your  pardon — after 
they  had  broken  off,  he  never  could 
abide  the  smell  of  roses." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  widow,  hold 
ing  her  muff  against  her  cheek  sen 
timentally,  "it  reminded  him  of  all 
the  tender  little  tete-a-tetes  and 
moonlight  nights  and  the  way  her 
hair  curled  about  her  forehead  and 
the  way  she  used  to  smile  at  him,  and 
of  her  gloves  and  her  ruffles  and  the 
color  of  her  eyes  and— 

"It  didn't!"  said  the  bachelor  em 
phatically.  "It  nauseated  him.  It's 
the  woman  who  always  remembers 
the  pleasant  part  of  a  love  affair.  A 
man  remembers  only — the  next 
morning — and  the  hard  time  he  had 
getting  out  of  it." 

[108] 


.*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <£ 

"And  the  headache,"  added  the 
widow. 

"And  the  'tired  feeling'." 

"And  the  other  woman,"  suggested 
the  widow  contemptuously. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  bachelor,  "the 
other  woman,  of  course.  But,"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "if  a  woman 
could  only  take  the  hint  in  time— 

"What  time?"  asked  the  widow. 
"When  a  man  begins  to  be  late  for 
his  engagements?" 

"Yes;  or  to  forget  them  alto 
gether." 

"And  to  make  excuses  and  enlarge 
on  his  rush  of  business." 

"And  to  seem  abstracted  during 
the  conversation." 

"And  to  stop  noticing  her  jokes  or 
her  frocks  or  the  way  she  does  her 
hair." 

[109] 


THE    WIDOW 


"And  to  stay  away  from  places 
where  he  could  be  sure  to  meet  her." 

"But,"  protested  the  widow,  "they 
always  make  such  plausible  excuses." 

"Nothing,"  said  the  bachelor  con 
fidently,  "will  keep  a  man  away  from 
a  woman  except  a  lack  of  interest  in 
her- 

"Or  an  interest  in  another 
woman,"  added  the  widow  promptly. 
"But,"  she  concluded  tentatively, 
"there  ought  to  be  a  cure  for  it." 

"For  what?    The  other  woman?" 

"That  tired  feeling,  Mr.  Travers." 

"There  isn't  any  cure,"  replied  the 
bachelor  promptly,  "but  there's  a 
good  preventive.  When  you  were  a 
very  little  girl,"  he  continued  patron 
izingly,  "and  liked  jam— 

"T  like  it  now!"  declared  the 
widow. 


no 


•J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

"How  did  your  mother  manage  to 
preserve  your  interest  in  it?" 

"She  took  the  jam  away,  Mr. 
Travers,  and  put  it  on  the  top  shelf 
always — just  before  I  had  had 
enough." 

"Well,  that's  the  way  to  preserve  a 
man's  interest  in  a  woman,"  declared 
the  bachelor.  "Deal  yourself  out  to 
him  in  homeopathic  doses.  Put 
yourself  on  the  top  shelf,  where  it  is 
hard  for  him  to  get  at  you.  Feed  him 
sugar  out  of  a  teaspoon;  don't  pass 
him  the  whole  sugar  bowl.  Then  he 
will  be  always  begging  for  more. 
One  only  wants  more  of  anything 
that  one  can't  get  enough  of,  you 
know.  Now,  if  a  woman  would  use 
her  judgment— 

"As  if  a  woman  in  love  had  any 
judgment!"  mocked  the  widow. 

[111] 


<*  THE    WIDOW  J* 

"That's  it!"  sighed  the  bachelor, 
"She  never  has.  She  just  lays  the 
whole  feast  before  the  man,  flings  all 
her  charms  at  his  head  at  once,  sur 
feits  him  with  the  champagne  of  her 
wit  and  lets  him  eat  all  the  sugar  off 
his  cake  right  away.  The  love  affair 
springs  up  like  a  mushroom  and— 

"Oh,  well,"  interrupted  the  widow 
impatiently,  "I  like  mushroom  love 
affairs.  I  like  a  man  who  can  fling 
himself  headlong  into  an  affair 
and- 

"Of  course  you  do!"  sighed  the 
bachelor,  "every  woman  does.  The 
sensible  and  temperate  man  who  will 
love  her  all  his  life— 

"A  little!"  said  the  widow  con 
temptuously. 

"Well,  a  little  is  enough,"  retorted 
the  bachelor,  "at  a  time." 

[112] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     # 

"That  depends,"  said  the  widow, 
"on  how  many  times — one  is  loved. 
There  are  some  women  who  are  so 
saving  of  their  sugar  and  frugal  with 
their  sentiment  that  they  never  know 
the  real  joy  of  a  grand  passion  or  of 
having  a  man  love  them  properly. 
What's  the  use  of  having  money  if 
you  are  always  going  to  keep  it  in  the 
bank?"  she  added  conclusively. 

The  bachelor  looked  down  at  her 
and  said  nothing.  There  was  a  smile 
of  hopeless  resignation  in  his  eyes. 

"Here  we  are!"  cried  the  widow, 
suddenly  stopping  in  front  of  a  tall 
brownstone  house  and  holding  out 
her  hand  politely.  "So  glad  to 
have- 

"Aren't  you  going  to  invite  me 
in?"  demanded  the  bachelor,  in  as 
tonishment. 

[113] 


THE    WIDOW 


The  widow  lifted  her  eyebrows  in 
faint  surprise. 

"What,"  she  asked  sweetly, 
"after  --  " 

"You  broke  an  engagement  with 
me  last  night!"  blurted  out  the 
bachelor,  looking  the  widow  straight 
in  the  eyes.  But  the  widow  shifted 
her  gaze  to  the  park  across  the  street 
and  swung  her  chatelaine  indiffer 
ently. 

"And  you  weren't  'at  home'  to  me 
the  day  before  yesterday  and  you 
were  out  of  town  for  a  week  before 
that;  and  you  promised  me  that  this 
afternoon— 

"Did  I?"  asked  the  widow,  looking 
up  innocently. 

"Yes,  you  did!"  declared  the 
bachelor. 

"Oh,  well,"  laughed  the  widow,  as 

[114] 


•,*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN      J« 

she  tripped  up  the  steps  with  a  wave 
of  her  muff,  "I  was  only  showing  you 
the  sugar  bowl;  but  I  didn't  mean 
you  could  have  another  spoonful  ;  be 
sides,"  she  added,  turning  round  and 
talking  through  the  tunnel  in  her 
muff,  "there's  somebody  waiting  in 
side." 

"Who?"  demanded  the  bachelor. 

"The  man  with  the  'tired  feeling'," 
said  the  widow. 

"But,"  began  the  bachelor  in  a 
puzzled  voice,  "if  he  is  tired  of  —  of 


"Me!"  the  widow  laughed.  "He 
isn't  tired  of  me,  Mr.  Travers.  It's 

—the  other  woman.    He  came  to  me 

fnr  _  fnr  _  __" 

1  \J  L  1  \J  I 

"A  bracer?"  suggested  the  bache 
lor.  "What  are  you  going  to  give 
him?"  he  added. 

[115] 


THE    WIDOW 


"Vinegar,  mustard,  pepper,  salt," 
said  the  widow  counting  off  the  but 
tons  of  her  coat,  child  fashion. 

The  bachelor  looked  at  her  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye. 

"Anything  else?"  he  asked. 

"A  little  —  ice,"  said  the  widow, 
gazing  out  over  the  park. 

"Anything  else?"  persisted  the 
bachelor. 

The  widow  studied  her  muff  mus 
ingly. 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know,"  she  said, 
doubtfully. 

"Any  —  sugar?"  demanded  the 
bachelor. 

The  widow  shook  her  head  smil 
ingly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'm  saving  that 
for  another— 

"Another!" 

[116] 


<£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J» 

"Another  time,"  said  the  widow 
ambiguously  as  she  let  the  door  close 
softly  behind  her. 


[117] 


IX 
HER  WAY. 

"I  I  1HERE,"  said  the  bache 
lor,  as  he  nodded  amiably 
at  the  big,  jolly-looking 
man  beside  the  little, 
weazened  woman,  "is  the  best  hus 
band  the  Lord  ever  made!" 

"The  Lord!"  said  the  widow 
scornfully.  "It  isn't  the  Lord  who 
makes  husbands.  It's  the  wife!" 

"And  I  always  thought  God  made 
Adam,"  sighed  the  bachelor,  humbly. 

"Adam, "said  the  widow  promptly, 
as  she  dropped  another  lump  of  sugar 
into  her  tea,  "wasn't  a  husband.  He 
was  only  a  man.  And  a  man  is  only 
— raw  material.  He  is  like  a  ready- 
made  frock  or  a  ready-made  coat;  he 
has  got  to  be  cut  down  and  built  up 

[118] 


£>     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

and  ironed  out  and  taken  in  and  to 
have  all  the  raw  edges  trimmed  off 
before  he  is  properly— 

"Finished?"  suggested  the  bache 
lor. 

The  widow  nodded  cheerfully. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "and  adjusted  to 
matrimony.  And  even  then  some 
times  he  is  a  dreadful  botch." 

"And  all  his  style  is  gone,"  sighed 
the  bachelor. 

The  widow  studied  her  Sevres  cup 
thoughtfully. 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "sometimes 
the  material  is  so  bad  or  so  skimpy— 

"So— what?" 

The  widow  smiled  patiently. 

"Skimpy,"  she  repeated.  "There 
is  so  little  to  some  men  that  the  clev 
erest  woman  couldn't  patch  them  up 

[119] 


THE    WIDOW 


into  a  full-sized  specimen.  They  are 
like  the  odds  and  ends  left  on  the 
remnant  counter.  You  have  to  do  the 
best  you  can  with  them  and  then  use 
Christian  Science  to  make  yourself 
believe  they  are  all  there  and  that  the 
patches  don't  show.  Haven't  you 
ever  seen  magnificent  women  trailing 
little  annexes  after  them  like  echoes 


or — or 

a 


Captives  in  the  wake  of  a  con 
quering  queen?"  broke  in  the  bache 
lor. 

The  widow  studied  her  Sevres  cup 
purple  plume  on  her  hat  danced. 

"Those,"  she  exclaimed,  "are  the 
bargain-counter  husbands,  picked  up 
at  the  last  moment  and  made  over  to 
fit  the  situation — which  they  never 
do." 

The  bachelor  set  down  his  teacup 

[120] 


**     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <£ 

with  the  light  of  revelation  in  his 
eyes. 

"And  I  always  thought,"  he  ex 
claimed  solemnly,  "that  they  were 
picked  out  on  purpose  to  act  as 
shadows  or — or  satellites." 

"Picked  out!"  echoed  the  widow 
mockingly.  "As  if  all  women 
wouldn't  be  married  to  Greek  gods  or 
Napoleon  Bonapartes  or  Wellingtons 
or  Byrons  if  they  could  'pick  out'  a 
husband.  Husbands  are  like  Christ 
mas  gifts.  You  can't  choose  them. 
You've  just  got  to  sit  down  and  wait 
until  they  arrive;  and  sometimes  they 
don't  arrive  at  all.  A  woman  doesn't 
'pick  out'  a  husband;  she  'picks  over' 
what's  offered  and  takes  the  best  of 
the  lot." 

"And  sometimes  you're  so  long 
picking  them  over,"  added  the  bache- 

[121] 


•3*  THE    WIDOW  <* 

lor,  "that  the  best  ones  are  snapped 
up  by  somebody  else  and  you  have  to 
take  the  left-overs." 

The  widow  poised  her  spoon  above 
her  cup  tentatively. 

"Well,"  she  sighed,  "it's  all  a  lot 
tery  anyhow.  The  girl  who  snaps  up 
her  first  offer  of  marriage  is  as  likely 
to  get  something  good  as  the  one  who 
snaps  her  finger  at  it  and  waits  for  a 
Prince  Charming  until  the  last  hour 
and  then  discovers  that  she  has  passed 
him  by  and  that  some  other  woman 
has  taken  him  and  made  him  over 
beautifully.  And  even  if  a  girl  had 
the  whole  world  to  select  from,  she 
wouldn't  know  how  to  choose.  You 
never  can  tell  by  the  way  a  thing 
looks  under  the  electric  light  in  the 
shop  how  it  will  look  in  broad  day 
light  when  you  have  got  it  home,  or 

[122] 


#     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     £ 

how  it  will  make  up  or  whether  it 
will  fade  or  run  or  shrink.  And  you 
never  can  tell  by  the  way  a  man  acts 
before  marriage  how  he  will  come 
out  in  the  wash  of  domesticity,  or 
stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  matri 
mony.  It's  usually  the  most  brilliant 
and  catchy  patterns  of  manhood  that 
turn  out  to  be  cotton-backed  after  the 
gloss  of  the  honeymoon  has  worn  off. 
And  on  the  other  hand  you  may  care 
fully  select  something  serviceable- 
dull  and  virtuous  and  worthy  and  all 
that — and  he  may  prove  so  stiff  and 
lumpy  and  set  in  his  ways  and  cross- 
grained  and  seamy  and  irritable  that 
you  will  cultivate  gray  hairs  and 
wrinkles— 

"Ironing  him  out?"  suggested  the 
bachelor. 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  widow,  "and  the 

[  123  ] 


THE    WIDOW 


wildest  'jolly  good  fellow'  will  often 
tame  down  like  a  lamb  or  a  pet  pony 
in  harness  and  will  become  a  joy  for 
ever  with  a  little  trimming  off  and 
taking  in  and  basting  up." 

"Humph,"  protested  the  bachelor, 
"but  when  you  catch  'em  wild  and 
tame  'em,  how  do  you  know  they  are 
not  going  to  break  the  harness  or 
burst  the  basting  threads?" 

The  widow  considered  a  moment. 

"You  don't,"  she  acknowledged 
grudgingly.  "But  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  catching  the  wild  variety  and 
domesticating  them  while  they  are 
young.  Of  course,  it's  utterly  impos 
sible  to  subdue  a  lion  after  he  has  got 
his  second  teeth,  and  it's  utterly  fool 
ish  to  try  to  reform  a  man — after  he  is 
thirty  or  has  begun  to  lose  his  hair. 
Besides,"  she  added,  "there  is  so 

[124] 


#     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

much  in  the  woman  who  does  the 
training  and  the  making  over.  There 
are  some  women  who  could  spoil  the 
finest  masculine  cloth  in  the  world  by 
too  much  cutting  and  ripping  and— 
and  nagging;  while  there  are  others 
who  can  give  a  man  or  a  house  or  a 
frock  just  the  touch  that  will  perfect 
them." 

"How  do  they  do  it?"  asked  the 
bachelor  enthusiastically.  "Take  'em 
by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and— 

"Mercy,  no!"  cried  the  widow. 
"They  take  them  unawares.  The 
well-trained  husband  never  knows 
what  has  happened  to  him.  He  only 
knows  that,  after  ten  years  of  matri 
mony,  he  is  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
his  own  youthful  picture.  He  has 
been  literally  re-formed  in  every 
thing  from  his  collars  and  the  way 

[125] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  & 

he  parts  his  hair  to  his  morals  and 
the  way  he  signs  his  name.  The  best 
husbands  aren't  caught;  they're 
made.  And  the  luckiest  woman  isn't 
the  one  who  marries  the  best  man, 
but  the  one  who  makes  the  most  out 
of  the  man  she  marries." 

"But,"  protested  the  bachelor,  "if 
we're  such  a  lot  and  such  a  lottery, 
why  do  you  marry  us  at  all?" 

The  widow  looked  up  in  surprise 
and  stopped  with  her  cup  poised  in 
midair. 

"Why  do  we  wear  frocks,  Mr. 
Travers?"  she  asked  witheringly. 
"Why  do  we  pompadour  our  hair  or 
eat  with  forks  or  go  to  pink  teas? 
Marriage  is  a  custom;  and  if  a 
woman  doesn't  marry  she  is  simply 
non — non " 

[126] 


"T1-"   we're    sncli    a    lot,    \vliy   do 
you    marrv    us  ?" 


Pasc    1 16 


<£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     «5» 

"Compos  mentis?"  inquired  the 
bachelor,  helpfully. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  widow,  "but 
that  wasn't  what  I  meant.  What  is 
the  Latin  for  'not  in  it'?  Her  father 
looks  at  her  accusingly  every  time  he 
has  to  pay  her  dressmaker's  bill  and 
her  mother  looks  at  her  commiserat- 
ingly  every  time  she  comes  home 
without  being  engaged  and  all  her 
friends  look  at  her  as  if  she  were  a 
curiosity  or — or  a  failure.  And  be 
sides,  she  misses  her  mission  in  life. 
That  was  what  the  Lord  put  Eve  in 
the  world  for — to  give  the  finishing 
touches  to  Adam." 

"She  finished  him  all  right!"  ex 
claimed  the  bachelor  fervently. 

"Making  a  living,"  went  on  the 
widow  scorning  the  insinuation,  "or 
making  a  career  or  making  fame  or 

[127] 


•#  THE    WIDOW  Jt 

a  fortune  isn't  the  real  forte  of 
woman.  It's  making  a  husband — out 
of  a  man." 

"I  should  think,"  said  the  bachelor 
setting  down  his  teacup  and  leaning 
back  comfortably  in  his  chair,  "that 
they  would  form  a  corporation  and 
set  up  a  factory  where  they  could 
turn  'em  out  by  the  dozen  or  the 
crate — or— 

"Pooh!"  cried  the  widow,  "a  hus 
band  is  a  work  of  art  and  has  to  be 
made  by  hand.  He  can't  be  turned 
out  by  machinery  like  a  chromo  or  a 
lithograph.  And,  besides,  if  you 
want  a  ready-made  one  you  can 
always  find  plenty  of  them  on  the 
second-hand  counter— 

"On  the— where?" 

"Where  they  keep  the  widowers," 
explained  the  widow.  "If  a  woman 

[128] 


•*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ** 

isn't  interested  or  clever  enough  to 
manufacture  her  own  husband,  she 
can  always  find  some  man  who  has 
been  modeled  by  another  woman. 
And  she  has  the  satisfaction  of  know 
ing  exactly  what  she's  getting  and 
just  what  to  expect.  The  only  trouble 
is  that,  in  case  she  makes  a  mistake  in 
her  choice,  she  never  has  a  chance  to 
make  him  over.  He  has  been  cut 
down  and  relined  and  faced  and 
patched  already  to  his  limit." 

"And  his  seams  are  apt  to  be  shiny 
and  his  temper  frayed  at  the  edges," 
declared  the  bachelor. 

"And  you  have  to  be  very  sure  that 
he  fits  your  disposition." 

"And  matches  your  taste." 

"And  that  he  won't  pinch  on  the 
bank  account." 

"Nor  stretch  on  the  truth." 

[129] 


<£  THE    WIDOW  J* 

"And  that  the  other  woman  hasn't 
botched  him." 

"And  even  then  he's  a  hand-me- 
down — and  may  shrink  or  run  or— 

"Oh,  widowers  don't  shrink  or 
run,"  retorted  the  widow.  "Matri 
mony  is  a  habit  with  them,  and  they 
feel  like  a  cab-horse  out  of  harness 
without  it.  They  long  to  feel  the  bit 
between  their  teeth  and  the  gentle 
hand  on  the  reins— 

"And  the  basting  threads,"  added 
the  bachelor.  "I  wonder  what  it's 
like,"  he  went  on,  meditatively. 

"You'll  never  know,"  said  the 
widow,  setting  her  cup  on  the  tabour- 
ette.  "You're  too  old." 

"Yes,  I've  got  my  second  teeth," 
sighed  the  bachelor. 

"And  your  bald  spot." 

[130] 


«*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

"And  I've  sown  my  second  crop 
of  wild  oats." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  widow  lean 
ing  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looking 
up  thoughtfully  under  her  purple 
feather,  "it  would  be  a  great  tri 
umph— 

"I  won't  be  put  in  harness!"  pro 
tested  the  bachelor. 

The  widow  considered  him 
gravely. 

"There's  plenty  of  material  in 
you,"  she  declared.  "You  could  be 
trimmed  off  and  cut  down  and " 

"I'm  too  tough  to  cut!" 

"And  relined." 

"I'm  almost  moth-eaten  now!" 
moaned  the  bachelor. 

The  widow  leaned  forward  and 
scrutinized  him  with  interest. 

"It  would   be   a   pity,"   she   said 

[131] 


THE    WIDOW 


slowly,  "to  let  the  wrong  woman 
botch  you.  The  next  time  you  pro 
pose  to  me,"  she  added  thoughtfully, 
"I  think  Fll- 

"Did  I  ever  propose  to  you?" 
broke  in  the  bachelor  with  real 
fright. 

"Oh,  lots  of  times,"  said  the 
widow;  "it's  almost  a  habit  now." 

"But  you  refused  me!"  pleaded  the 
bachelor.  "Say  you  refused  me." 

"I  did,"  said  the  widow  promptly. 
"I  wasn't  looking  for  —  remnants." 

"Never  mind!"  retorted  the  bache 
lor.  "Some  day  you  may  find  I've 
been  grabbed  up." 

"You'll  have  lost  all  your  —  starch 
and  style  by  then,"  said  the  widow  as 
she  patted  her  back  hair  and  started 
for  the  door. 

[132] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

The  bachelor  followed,  putting  on 
his  gloves. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he 
asked,  when  they  had  bidden  their 
hostess  good-afternoon  and  stood  on 
the  portico  saying  goodby. 

"Well,"  said  the  widow,  "it  would 
take  an  artist  to  make  you  over.  The 
wrong  woman  would  utterly  ruin 
you." 

"And  who  is  the  wrong  woman?" 
The  bachelor  tried  to  look  into  the 
widow's  eyes  beneath  the  purple 
feather. 

But  the  widow  only  glanced  out 
over  the  lawn  and  swung  her  parasol. 

"Who  is  the  wrong  woman?"  per 
sisted  the  bachelor. 

The  widow  studied  the  tip  of  her 
patent  leather  toe. 

"Who  is  the  wrong  woman?" 

[133] 


THE    WIDOW 


The  widow  looked  up  suddenly 
under  her  violet  feather. 

"The  other  woman,"  she  said 
softly,  "of  course." 

N 


TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     # 

X 

MARRIAGE. 

«¥SNT  all  this  talk  about  'trial 
marriages' absurd?"  remarked 
the  widow,  laying  her  news 
paper  on  the  tabourette  and 
depositing  two  small  red  kid  toes  on 
the  edge  of  the  fender. 

"It  is,"  agreed  the  bachelor,  cheer 
fully,  with  his  eyes  on  the  red  kid 
toes,  "considering  that  all  marriages 
are — trials." 

"Just  fancy,"  went  on  the  widow, 
scornfully,  ignoring  the  flippancy, 
"being  leased  to  a  husband  or  wife 
for  a  period  of  years,  like  a  flat  or  a 
yacht  or — or— 

"A  second-hand  piano,"  suggested 
the  bachelor. 

"And    knowing,"    continued     the 

1135] 


THE    WIDOW 


widow,  gazing  contemplatively  into 
the  fire,  "that  when  the  lease  or  the 
contract  or  whatever  it  is  expired, 
unless  the  other  party  cared  to  re 
new  it,  you  would  be  on  the  market 
again." 

"And  probably  in  need  of  all  sorts 
of  repairs,"  added  the  bachelor,  re 
flectively,  "in  your  temper  and  your 
complexion  and  your  ideas," 

"Yes,"  sighed  the  widow,  "ten 
years  of  married  life  will  rub  all  the 
varnish  off  your  manners,  and  all  the 
color  off  your  illusions  and  all  the 
finish  off  your  conversation." 

"And  the  hinges  of  your  love  mak 
ing  and  your  pretty  speeches  are 
likely  to  creak  every  time  you  open 
your  mouth,"  affixed  the  bachelor, 
gloomily. 

"And  you  are  bound  to  be  old-fash- 

\  136  1 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <£ 

ioned,"  concluded  the  widow,  with 
conviction,  "and  to  compare  badly 
with  brand-new  wives  and  husbands 
with  all  the  modern  improvements. 
Besides,"  she  continued,  thought 
fully,  "even  if  you  should  be  lucky 
enough  to  find  another — another— 

"Tenant  for  your  heart?"  sug 
gested  the  bachelor,  helpfully. 

The  widow  nodded. 

"There  would  be  the  agony,"  she 
went  on,  "of  getting  used  to  him  or 
her." 

"And  the  torture,"  added  the 
bachelor,  with  a  faint  shudder,  "of 
going  through  with  the  wedding 
ceremony  again  and  of  walking  up  a 
green  and  yellow  church  aisle  with 
a  green  and  yellow  feeling  and  a  stiff 
new  coat,  and  the  gaping  multitude 
gazing  at  you  as  if  you  were  a  new 

[137] 


THE    WIDOW 


specimen  of  crocodile  or  a  curio 
or  ---  " 

"It  takes  nearly  all  of  one  life 
time,"  interrupted  the  widow,  im 
patiently,  "to  get  used  to  one  wife  or 
husband;  but,  according  to  the  'trial 
marriage'  idea,  just  as  you  had  gotten 
somebody  nicely  trained  into  all  your 
little  ways  and  discovered  how  to 
manage  him— 

"And  to  bluff  him,"  interpolated 
the  bachelor. 

"And  what  to  have  for  dinner 
when  you  were  going  to  show  him 
the  bill  for  a  new  hat,"  proceeded  the 
widow,  "and  how  to  keep  him  at 
home  nights— 

"And  to  separate  him  from  his 
money,"  remarked  the  bachelor,  sar 
castically. 

"And  to  make  him  see  things  your 

[138] 


v*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

way,"  concluded  the  widow,  "it 
would  be  time  to  pack  up  your  trunks 
and  leave.  Any  two  people,"  she 
continued,  meditatively,  "can  live 
together  fairly  comfortably  after 
they  have  discovered  the  path  around 
one  another's  nerves — the  little  things 
not  to  say  and  not  to  do  in  order  to 
avoid  friction,  and  the  little  things 
to  say  and  to  do  that  will  oil  the 
matrimonial  wheels.  But  it  would 
take  all  the  'trial'  period  to  get  the 
domestic  machine  running,  and 
then " 

"You'd  be  running  after  another 
soul-mate,"  finished  the  bachelor, 
sympathetically. 

"Yes."  The  widow  crossed  the  red 
kid  toes  and  then  drew  them  quickly 
under  the  ruffles  of  her  skirts  as  she 
caught  the  bachelor  staring  at  them. 

[139] 


THE    WIDOW 


"And  —  I've  —  forgotten  what  I  was 
going  to  say,"  she  finished,  turning 
the  color  of  her  slippers. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  the 
bachelor,  consolingly. 

"What!" 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  you  say," 
explained  the  bachelor,  "it's  the  way 
you  say  it,  and— 

"About  soul-mates,"  broke  in  the 
widow,  collecting  herself,  "there'd 
always  be  the  chance,"  she  pursued 
hurriedly,  "that  you'd  have  to  take 
a  second-hand  one." 

"Sometimes,"  remarked  the  bache 
lor,  blowing  a  smoke  ring  and  gaz 
ing  through  it  at  the  place  where  the 
widow's  toes  had  been,  "second-hand 
goods  are  more  attractive  than 
cheap,  new  articles.  For  instance, 
widows— 

[140] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Oh,  widows!"  interrupted  the 
widow  impatiently,  "They're  differ 
ent.  They're  like  heirlooms — only 
parted  with  at  death.  But  it  would  be 
different  with  a  wife  who  was  relin 
quished  because  she  wasn't  wanted. 
If  anybody  is  anxious  to  get  rid  of 
something  it  is  a  pretty  sure  sign  that 
it  isn't  worth  having.  It's  nearly 
always  got  a  flaw  somewhere  and  it's 
seldom  what  it  is  represented  to  be. 
Besides,  I've  noticed  that  the  woman 
who  can't  get  along  with  one  hus 
band,  usually  finds  it  just  as  difficult 
to  get  along  with  another." 

"There  would  always  be  the 
chance,"  protested  the  bachelor, 
"that  you  might  get  the  party  who 
had  done  the  discarding." 

"And  who  might  want  to  do  it 
again,"  objected  the  widow  triumph- 

[141] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  <# 

antly.  "Just  imagine,"  she  added 
irrelevantly,  "living  with  a  person 
whom  somebody  else  had  trained!" 

"Oh,  that  would  have  its  advan 
tages,"  declared  the  bachelor.  "A 
horse  broken  to  harness  is  always 
easier  to  handle." 

"Perhaps,"  agreed  the  widow  lean 
ing  back  and  thoughtlessly  putting 
her  red  kid  toes  on  the  fender  again, 
"but  when  two  horses  are  going  to 
travel  together  it  is  always  best  for 
them  to  get  used  to  one  another's  gait 
from  the  first.  Don't  you  look  at  it 
that  way?" 

"Which  way?"  asked  the  bachelor, 
squinting  at  the  fender  with  his  head 
on  the  side. 

"Fancy,"  said  the  widow  not  notic 
ing  the  deflection,  "marrying  a  man 
who  had  been  encouraged  to  take  an 

[142] 


J»     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     «* 

interest  in  the  household  affairs  and 
having  him  following  you  about 
picking  up  things  after  you;  or  one, 
whose  first  wife  had  trained  him  to 
sit  by  the  fire  in  the  evening,  and 
whom  it  took  a  derrick  to  get  to  the 
theatre  or  a  dinner  party;  or  one  who 
had  been  permitted  to  smoke  a  pipe 
and  put  his  feet  all  over  the  furni 
ture  and  growl  about  the  meals  and 
boss  the  cook!" 

"Or  to  a  wife,"  interpolated  the 
bachelor,  "who  had  always  handled 
the  funds  and  monopolized  the  con 
versation  and  chosen  her  husband's 
collars  and  who  threw  all  her  past 
husbands  at  you  every  time  you  did 
something  she  wasn't  used  to  or  ob 
jected  to  something  she  was  used  to." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  widow  with  a 
little  shiver,  "what  horrid  things 

[143] 


THE    WIDOW 


two  people  could  say  to  one  another." 

"Such  as  'Just  wait  until  the  lease 
is  up!'  "  suggested  the  bachelor. 

The  widow  nodded. 

"Or,  'The  next  time  I  marry,  I'll 
be  careful  not  to  take  anybody  with 
red  hair,'  or,  'Thank  goodness  it 
won't  last  forever!'"  she  added. 

"That's  the  beauty  of  it!"  broke  in 
the  bachelor  enthusiastically.  "It 
wouldn't  last  forever!  And  the 
knowledge  that  it  wouldn't  would  be 
such  an  anaesthetic." 

"Such  a  what!"  the  widow  sat  up 
so  suddenly  that  both  toes  slipped 
from  the  fender  and  her  heels  landed 
indignantly  on  the  floor. 

"It  would  be  the  lump  of  sugar," 
explained  the  bachelor,  "that  would 
take  away  the  bitter  taste  and  make 
you  able  to  swallow  all  the  trials 

[144] 


£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ^ 

more  easily.  It's  the  feeling  that  a 
painful  operation  won't  last  long  that 
makes  it  possible  to  grin  and  bear  it. 
Besides,  it  would  do  away  with  all 
sorts  of  crimes,  like  divorce  and  wife 
murder  and  ground  glass  in  the 
coffee.  Knowing  that  the  marriage 
was  only  temporary  and  that  we  were 
only  sort  of  house-party  guests  might 
make  us  more  polite  and  agreeable 
and  entertaining,  so  as  to  leave  a  good 
impression  behind  us." 

"I  do  believe,"  cried  the  widow, 
sitting  up  straight  and  looking  at  the 
bachelor  accusingly,  "that  you're 
arguing  in  favor  of  'trial  marriage.' ' 

"I'm  not  arguing  in  favor  of  mar 
riage  at  all,"  protested  the  bachelor 
plaintively.  "But  marrying  for  life 
is  like  putting  the  whole  dinner  on 
the  table  at  once.  It  takes  away  your 

[145] 


THE    WIDOW 


appetite.  Marrying  on  trial  would 
be  more  like  serving  it  in  courses." 

"And  changing  the  course  would 
be  such  a  strain,"  declared  the 
widow.  "Why,  when  the  contract 
was  up  how  would  you  know  how  to 
divide  things  —  the  children  and  —  " 

"The  dog  and  the  cat." 

"And  all  the  little  mementos  you 
had  collected  together  and  the  things 
you  had  shared  in  common  and  the 
favorite  arm  chair  and  the  things  you 
had  grown  used  to  and  fond  of— 

"Oh,  well,  in  that  case,"  remarked 
the  bachelor,  "you  might  have  grown 
so  used  to  and  fond  of  one  another 
that  when  it  came  to  the  parting  of 
the  ways,  you  would  not  want  to  part 
them.  After  all,"  he  went  on  soberly, 
"if  'trial  marriages'  were  put  into  ef 
fect,  they  would  end  nine  times  out 

[146] 


£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

of  ten  in  good  old  fashioned  matri 
mony.  A  man  can  get  as  accustomed 
to  a  woman  as  he  does  to  a  pipe  or  a 
chair " 

"What!" 

"And  a  woman,"  pursued  the 
bachelor,  "can  become  as  attached  to 
a  man  and  as  fond  of  him  as  she  is 
of  an  old  umbrella  or  a  pair  of  old 
shoes  that  have  done  good  service. 
No  matter  how  battered  or  worn  they 
may  become,  nor  how  many  breaks 
there  are  in  them,  we  can  never  find 
anything  to  quite  take  their  place. 
Matrimony,  after  all,  is  just  a  habit; 
and  husbands  and  wives  become 
habits — habits  that  however  disagree 
able  they  may  be  we  don't  want  to 
part  with.  'Trial  marriages,'  even  if 
they  should  be  tried,  wouldn't  alter 
things  much.  As  long  as  two  people 

[147] 


<*  THEWIDOW  <* 

can  stand  one  another  they  will  cling 
together  anyhow,  and  if  they  can't 
they  won't  anyhow;  and  whether  it's 
a  run  out  lease  or  a  divorce  or  prussic 
acid  that  separates  them  doesn't  make 
much  difference.  Custom,  not  the 
wedding  certificate,  is  the  tie  that 
binds  most  of  us.  The  savage  doesn't 
need  any  laws  to  hold  him  to  the 
woman  of  his  choice.  Habit  does  it; 
and  if  habit  doesn't  the  woman  will !" 

The  widow  sighed  and  leaned  back 
in  her  chair. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  "but  it 
seems  dreadfully  dreary." 

"What  seems  dreadfully  dreary?" 
inquired  the  bachelor. 

"Matrimony,"  replied  the  widow 
solemnly.  "It  IS  like  those  old 
chairs  and  pipes  and  shoes  and  things 
you  were  speaking  of;  it's  full  of 

[148] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     Jl 

holes  and  breaks  and  bare  spots,  and 
it  won't  always  work — but  there's 
nothing  that  will  quite  take  the  place 
of  it." 

"Nothing,"  said  the  bachelor, 
promptly.  "That's  why  I  want  to— 

The  widow  rose  quickly  and  shook 
out  her  skirts. 

"Now,  don't  begin  that,  Billy,"  she 
said,  trying  to  be  severe,  "you're  too 
old!" 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  still  in  good  re 
pair,"  protested  the  bachelor. 

The  widow  shook  her  head. 

"All  the  varnish  is  worn  off  your 
ideals,"  she  objected,  "and  the  hinges 
of  your  enthusiasm  creak  and  you've 
got  a  bare  spot  on  the  top  of  your 
head,  and " 

"But  I've  most  of  the  modern  im 
provements,"  broke  in  the  bachelor, 

[149] 


THE    WIDOW 


desperately,    "and    I'm    not   second 
hand,  anyway!" 

"No,"  said  the  widow,  looking  him 
over  critically,  "you're  shop-worn. 
But,  originally,  you  were  an  attrac 
tive  article,  and  you're  genuine  and 

good  style  and  well  preserved,  and 

" 


"Well?"  The  bachelor  looked  up 
expectantly. 

"If  there  WERE  such  a  thing  as 
'trial  marriages'-  The  widow  hes 
itated  again. 

"You'd  give  me  a  trial?"  asked  the 
bachelor  eagerly. 

"Oh,"  said  the  widow,  studying 
the  toes  of  her  red  slippers,  "it 
wouldn't  be  —  such  a  trial!" 


[150] 


f  \-V-3-i 

'.       ^aid    the     widow,     "you're 
shop-worn." 


w 


TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     # 

XI 
THE  WIDOW'S  DEAL. 

"TT77HO  is  the  ideal 
woman?"  asked  the 
widow  pensively, 
laying  down  her  em 
broidery  hoop  and  clasping  her 
hands  behind  her  head. 

The  bachelor  blew  a  smoke  ring 
reflectively  and  squinted  through  it 
at  the  widow. 

"You've  got  powder  on  your  nose!" 
he  remarked  disapprovingly. 

The  widow  snatched  up  a  diapha 
nous  lace  handkerchief  and  began 
rubbing  her  nose. 

"Have  I  got  too  much  on?"  she 
asked  anxiously. 

"Any,"  replied  the  bachelor,  with 
dignified  scorn,  "is  too  much — in  a 
man's  eyes." 

[151] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  ^ 

The  widow  laughed  and  stopped 
rubbing  her  nose. 

"But  it  isn't  in  his  eyes,"  she  pro 
tested,  "if  it  is  put  on  so  artistically 
that  he  doesn't  see  it.  Getting  it  on 
straight  is  such  an  art!"  and  the 
widow  sighed. 

"Black  art,  you  mean,"  exclaimed 
the  bachelor  disgustedly.  "A  made- 
up  woman  is  like  paste  jewelry  and 
imitation  bric-a-brac.  She  looks 
cheap  and  unsubstantial  and  as 
though  she  wouldn't  wear  well. 
Even  granting  that  you  aren't  half 
good  enough  for  us— 

"What!" 

"And  that  you  don't  come  up  to 
our  standards— 

The  widow  dropped  her  embroid 
ery  hoop  and  sat  up  with  blazing 
eyes. 

[152] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     £> 

"You  flatter  yourself,  Mr.  Trav- 
ers!" 

"No,  I  don't!"  retorted  the  bache 
lor.  "It's  you  who  flatter  us,  when 
you  think  it  necessary  to  plaster  over 
your  defects  and  put  additions  on 
your  figures  and  rouge  on  your 
cheeks  and  frills  on  your  manners. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  added  decis 
ively,  "a  man's  ideal  is  a  natural 
woman  with  a  natural  complexion 
and  natural  hair  and  natural  ways 
and  natural  self-respect." 

The  widow  sighed  and  took  up  her 
embroidery  hoop  again. 

"I  used  to  think  so,  too,"  she  said 
sadly. 

The  bachelor  lifted  his  eyebrows 
inquiringly. 

"Before    I    discovered,"    she   ex- 

[153] 


THE    WIDOW 


plained,  "that  it  was  just  as  often  a 
woman  with  butter-colored  hair  and 
a  tailor-made  figure  and  a  'past'  and 
a  manufactured  'bloom  of  health.' 
The  truth  is,"  she  concluded,  stab 
bing  her  needle  very  carefully  into 
the  centre  of  an  unhealthy  looking 
green  silk  rose,  "that  no  two  men  ad 
mire  the  same  woman,  and  no  one 
man  admires  the  same  thing  in  two 
women.  Now,  there's  Miss  Gun 
ning,  who  wears  a  sweater  and  says 
'damn'  and  is  perfectly  natural  and 
self-respecting  and  - 

"No  man  gets  ecstatic  over  a  bad 
imitation  of  himself!"  expostulated 
the  bachelor. 

"Then  why,"  said  the  widow,  lay 
ing  down  her  needle  and  fixing  the 
bachelor  with  a  glittering  eye,  "do 
you  spend  so  much  time  on  the  golf 

[154] 


£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     * 

links,  and  out  driving  and  hunting 
and  walking  with  her?" 

"Because,"  explained  the  bachelor, 
meekly,  "she  sometimes  hits  the  ball, 
and  she  can  sit  in  her  saddle  without 
being  tied  there,  and  she  doesn't  grab 
the  reins  nor  call  a  'hoof  a  'paw.' 
But,"  he  added  fervently,  "I'd  take 
my  hat  and  run  if  she  asked  me  to 
spend  my  life  with  her." 

"Oh,  well,"  the  widow  tossed  her 
head  independently.  "She  won't. 
Miss  Gunning  can  take  care  of  her 
self." 

"That's  just  it!"  pursued  the 
bachelor.  "The  very  fact  that  she 
can  take  care  of  herself  and  get  across 
gutters  alone  and  pick  up  things  for 
herself  and  handle  her  own  horse  and 
beat  me  at  golf  and  tennis,  takes  away 
that  gratifying  sense  of  protection- 

[155] 


THE    WIDOW 


"And  superiority,"  interposed  the 
widow  softly. 

"That  a  man  likes  to  feel  toward  a 
woman,"  concluded  the  bachelor,  ig 
noring  her.  "Muscle  and  biceps  and 
a  32-inch  waist,"  he  added,  "are  're 
freshing,'  but  in  time  they  get  on 
your  nerves.  It  may  not  be  immoral 
for  a  dear  little  thing  to  say  'damn,' 
but  it  affects  a  man  just  as  it  would 
to  hear  a  canary  bird  squawking  like 
a  parrot.  When  a  chap  is  going  for 
a  walk  cross  country  he  may  pick  out 
the  girl  with  the  stride  and  the  strong 
back,  who  can  leap  a  fence  and  help 
herself  over  puddles,  to  accompany 
him,  but  when  he  is  ready  for  a  walk 
to  the  altar  he  naturally  prefers 
somebody  who  understands  the  art  of 
leaning  gently  on  the  masculine  arm 

[156] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

and  who  hasn't  any  rough  edges 
or " 

"Sharp  points  of  view,"  suggested 
the  widow. 

"Or  opinions  on  the  equality  of  the 
sexes,"  added  the  bachelor. 

"Or  on  politics." 

"Or  the  higher  life." 

"Or  on  anything  but  the  latest  way 
to  curl  her  hair  and  make  over  a  hat," 
finished  the  widow.  "Isn't  it  funny," 
she  added  thoughtfully  twisting  a 
French  knot  into  the  centre  of  the 
sickly  green  rose,  "how  many  men 
idealize  a  fool?" 

The  bachelor  started. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stam 
mered. 

"All  a  woman  has  got  to  know  in 
order  to  wear  a  halo,"  went  on  the 
widow,  calmly  fastening  the  French 

[157] 


•£  THE    WIDOW  J* 

knot  with  a  jerk  of  her  needle,  "is 
how  to  keep  it  on  straight.  All  a  man 
demands  of  her  is  the  negative  vir 
tues  and  the  knowledge  of  how  not  to 
do  things ;  how  not  to  think,  how  not 
to  argue,  how  not  to  nag,  how  not  to 
theorize,  how  not  to  be  athletic,  how 
not  to  spend  money,  how  not  to  take 
care  of  herself,  how  not— 

"You've  got  your  ideas  into  a 
French  knot!"  broke  in  the  bachelor 
desperately.  "You're  all  tangled  up 
in  the  thread  of  your  argument.  It 
isn't  how  not  to  do  things  but  how  to 
do  them  that  is  important  to  a 
woman.  It  isn't  what  she  does  but 
how  she  does  it  that  matters.  She 
may  commit  a  highway  murder  or 
low  down  burglary;  and  if  she  does 
it  in  a  ruffled  skirt  and  a  picture  hat 
any  man  will  forgive  her.  Her 

[  158  ] 


J«     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     ** 

morals  may  be  as  crooked  and  dark 
as  a  lane  at  midnight;  but  if  her  man 
ners  are  smooth  and  gentle  and  guile 
less  and  tender  she  can  deceive  the 
cleverest  man  alive  into  believing  her 
a  nun.  It  isn't  what  she  says  but  how 
she  says  it  that  counts.  There  are 
some  women  who  could  read  your 
death  warrant  or  repeat  the  multi 
plication  table  in  such  a  confiding 
voice  and  with  such  a  tender  glance 
that  you  would  want  to  take  them  in 
your  arms  and  thank  them  for  it.  It 
isn't  what  a  woman  wears  but  how 
she  wears  it;  it's  not  her  beauty  nor 
her  talents  nor  her  frocks  that  make 
her  fascinating,  but  her  ways,  the 
little  earmarks  of  femininity  that 
God  put  on  every  creature  born  to 
wear  petticoats ;  and  if  she's  got  those 
she  may  be  a  Lucretia  Borgia  or  a 

[159] 


THE    WIDOW 


knot  with  a  jerk  of  her  needle,  "is 
how  to  keep  it  on  straight.  All  a  man 
demands  of  her  is  the  negative  vir 
tues  and  the  knowledge  of  how  not  to 
do  things  ;  how  not  to  think,  how  not 
to  argue,  how  not  to  nag,  how  not  to 
theorize,  how  not  to  be  athletic,  how 
not  to  spend  money,  how  not  to  take 
care  of  herself,  how  not— 

"You've  got  your  ideas  into  a 
French  knot!"  broke  in  the  bachelor 
desperately.  "You're  all  tangled  up 
in  the  thread  of  your  argument.  It 
isn't  how  not  to  do  things  but  how  to 
do  them  that  is  important  to  a 
woman.  It  isn't  what  she  does  but 
how  she  does  it  that  matters.  She 
may  commit  a  highway  murder  or 
low  down  burglary;  and  if  she  does 
it  in  a  ruffled  skirt  and  a  picture  hat 
any  man  will  forgive  her.  Her 

[158] 


*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     & 

morals  may  be  as  crooked  and  dark 
as  a  lane  at  midnight ;  but  if  her  man 
ners  are  smooth  and  gentle  and  guile 
less  and  tender  she  can  deceive  the 
cleverest  man  alive  into  believing  her 
a  nun.  It  isn't  what  she  says  but  how 
she  says  it  that  counts.  There  are 
some  women  who  could  read  your 
death  warrant  or  repeat  the  multi 
plication  table  in  such  a  confiding 
voice  and  with  such  a  tender  glance 
that  you  would  want  to  take  them  in 
your  arms  and  thank  them  for  it.  It 
isn't  what  a  woman  wears  but  how 
she  wears  it;  it's  not  her  beauty  nor 
her  talents  nor  her  frocks  that  make 
her  fascinating,  but  her  ways,  the 
little  earmarks  of  femininity  that 
God  put  on  every  creature  born  to 
wear  petticoats;  and  if  she's  got  those 
she  may  be  a  Lucretia  Borgia  or  a 

[159] 


THE    WIDOW 


He  doesn't  want  to  see  how  the 
wheels  go  around  at  the  toilet  table 
or  in  a  woman's  head  or  her  heart; 
and  it's  the  subtle,  illusive  little  thing 
that  he  doesn't  notice  until  he  steps 
on  her  and  finds  her  looking  up  ador 
ingly  at  him  under  his  nose  that  he 
idealizes." 

"And  marries,"  added  the  bachelor 
conclusively. 

"And  then  forgets,"  sighed  the 
widow,  "while  he  goes  off  to  amuse 
himself  with  the  obvious  person  with 
peroxide  hair  and  a  straight-front 
figure.  I  don't  know,"  she  added  ten 
tatively,  "that  it's  much  fun  being 
an  ideal  woman." 

"Who  said  you  were?"  demanded 
the  bachelor  suddenly. 

The  widow  started  and  turned 
pink  to  her  chin. 

[162] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

"Oh — nobody — that  is,  several 
people,  Mr.  Travers." 

"Had  you  refused  them?"  asked 
the  bachelor  thoughtfully. 

The  widow  blushed  a  deeper  pink 
and  bent  over  her  pale  green  rose  so 
low  that  the  bachelor  could  not  see 
her  eyes. 

"Why — that  is — I  don't  see  what 
that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"It  has  everything  to  do  with,"  re 
plied  the  bachelor  positively. 

"And  you  haven't  told  me  yet," 
continued  the  widow,  suddenly 
changing  the  subject,  "whom  you 
consider  the  ideal  woman." 

"Don't  you  know?"  asked  the 
bachelor  insinuatingly. 

The  widow  shook  her  head  with 
out  lifting  her  eyes. 

[163] 


THE    WIDOW 


"Well,  then,  she  is  —  but  so  many 
of  them  have  told  you." 

"You  haven't,"  persisted  the 
widow. 

The  bachelor  sighed  and  rose  to 

g°- 

"The  ideal  woman,"  he  said,  as  he 

slipped  on  his  gloves,  "is  —  the  woman 
you  can't  get.  Is  that  the  firelight 
playing  on  your  pompadour?"  he 
added,  looking  down  upon  the  widow 
through  half-closed  eyes.  "Do  you 
know  —  for  a  moment  —  I  thought  it 
was  a  halo." 


[164] 


<£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

XII 

NEW  YEAR'S  IRRESOLUTIONS. 

U  T  SN'T  it  hard,"  said  the  widow, 
glancing  ruefully  at  the  holly- 
wreathed     clock     above     the 
mantel-piece,  "to  know  where 
to  begin  reforming  yourself?" 

"Great  heavens!"  exclaimed  the 
bachelor,  "you  are  not  going  to  do 
anything  like  that,  are  you?" 

The  widow  pointed  solemnly  to 
the  hands  of  the  clock,  which  indi 
cated  1 1.30,  and  then  to  the  calendar, 
on  which  hung  one  fluttering  leaf 
marked  December  31. 

"It  is  time,"  she  sighed,  "to  begin 
our  mental  housecleaning,  to  sweep 
out  our  collection  of  last  year's  fol 
lies,  and  dust  off  our  petty  sins  and 
fling  away  our  old  vices  and " 

[  165] 


THE    WIDOW 


"That's  the  trouble!''  broke  in  the 
bachelor.  "It's  so  hard  to  know  just 
what  to  throw  away  and  what  to 
keep.  Making  New  Year's  resolu 
tions  is  like  doing  the  spring  house- 
cleaning  or  clearing  out  a  drawer  full 
of  old  letters  and  sentimental  rub 
bish.  You  know  that  there  are  lots 
of  things  you  ought  to  get  rid  of,  and 
that  are  just  in  the  way,  and  that  you 
would  be  better  off  without,  but  the 
minute  you  make  up  your  mind  to 
part  with  anything,  even  a  tiny,  insig 
nificant  vice,  it  suddenly  becomes  so 
dear  and  attractive  that  you  repent 
and  begin  to  take  a  new  interest  in 
it.  The  only  time  I  ever  had  to  be 
taken  home  in  a  cab  was  the  day  after 
I  promised  to  sign  the  pledge,"  and 
the  bachelor  sighed  reminiscently. 

"And  the  only  time  I  ever  over- 

[166] 


J*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

drew  my  bank  account,"  declared  the 
widow,  "was  the  day  after  I  had  re 
solved  to  economize.  I  suppose,"  she 
added  pensively,  "that  the  best  way 
to  begin  would  be  to  pick  out  the 
worst  vice  and  discard  that." 

"And  that  will  leave  heaps  of  room 
for  the  others  and  for  a  lot  of  new 
little  sins,  besides,  won't  it?"  agreed 
the  bachelor  cheerfully.  "Well,"  he 
added  philosophically,  "I'll  give  up 
murdering." 

"What!"    The  widow  started. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to?"  asked  the 
bachelor  plaintively,  rubbing  his 
bald  spot.  "Or  perhaps  I  might  re 
solve  not  to  commit  highway  robbery 
any  more,  or  to  stop  forging,  or— 

"All  of  which  is  so  easy!"  broke  in 
the  widow  sarcastically. 

"There'd  be  some  glory  and  some 

[167] 


J«  THE    WIDOW  J* 

reason  in  giving  up  a  big  vice," 
sighed  the  bachelor,  "if  a  fellow  had 
one.  But  the  trouble  is  that  most  of 
us  men  haven't  any  big  criminal 
tendencies,  merely  a  heap  of  little 
follies  and  weaknesses  that  there  isn't 
any  particular  virtue  in  sacrificing 
or  any  particular  harm  in  keeping." 

"And  which  you  always  do  keep, 
in  spite  of  all  your  New  Year's 
vows,"  remarked  the  widow  ironi 
cally. 

"Huh!"  The  bachelor  laughed 
cynically.  "It's  our  New  Year's 
vows  that  help  us  to  keep  'em.  The 
very  fact  that  a  fellow  has  sworn  to 
forego  anything,  whether  it's  a  habit 
or  a  girl,  makes  it  more  attractive. 
I've  thrown  away  a  whole  box  of 
cigars  with  the  finest  intentions  in  the 
world  and  then  gotten  up  in  the 

[168] 


^     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J« 

middle  of  the  night  to  fish  the  pieces 
out  of  the  waste  basket.  And  that 
midnight  smoke  was  the  sweetest  I 
ever  had.  It  was  sweeter  than  the 
apples  I  stole  when  I  was  a  kid  and 
than  the  kisses  I  stole  when— 

"If  you  came  here  to  dilate  on  the 
joys  of  sin,  Mr.  Travers,"  began  the 
widow  coldly. 

"And,"  proceeded  the  bachelor, 
"I've  made  up  my  mind  to  stop  flirt 
ing  with  a  girl,  because  I  found  out 
that  she  was  beginning  to — to— 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  the 
widow  sympathetically. 

"And  by  jove!"  finished  the  bache 
lor,  "I  had  to  restrain  myself  to  keep 
from  going  back  and  proposing  to 
her!" 

"How  lucky  you  did !"  commented 
the  widow  witheringly. 

[169] 


THE    WIDOW 


"But  I  wouldn't  have,"  explained 
the  bachelor  ruefully,  "if  the  girl  had 
restrained  herself." 

"Nevertheless,"  repeated  the 
widow,  "is  was  lucky  —  for  the  girl." 

"Which  girl?"  asked  the  bachelor. 
"The  girl  I  broke  off  with  or  the 
girl  that  came  afterward?" 

"I  suppose,"  mused  the  widow, 
ignoring  the  levity  and  leaning  over 
to  arrange  a  bunch  of  violets  at  her 
belt,  "that  is  why  it  is  so  difficult  for 
a  man  to  keep  a  promise  or  a  vow  — 
even  a  marriage  vow." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  The  bachelor 
leaned  back  and  regarded  the 
widow's  coronet  braid  through  the 
smoke  from  his  cigar.  "It  isn't  the 
marriage,  vows  that  are  so  difficult  to 
keep.  It's  the  fool  vows  a  man 
makes  before  marriage  and  the  fool 

[170] 


promises  he  makes  afterward  that  he 
stumbles  over  and  falls  down  on.  The 
marriage  vows  are  so  big  and  vague 
that  you  can  get  all  around  them 
without  actually  breaking  them,  but 
if  they  should  interpolate  concrete 
questions  into  the  service  such  as, 
'Do  you,  William,  promise  not  to 
growl  at  the  coffee'- 

"Or  'Do  you,  Mary,  promise  never 
to  put  a  daub  of  powder  on  your  nose 
again?'  "  broke  in  the  widow. 

"Nor  to  look  twice  at  your  pretty 
stenographer,"  continued  the  bache 
lor. 

"Nor  to  lie  about  your  age,  or  your 
foot  or  your  waist  measure." 

"Nor  to  juggle  with  the  truth 
whenever  you  stay  out  after  half  past 
ten." 

"Nor  to  listen  to  things  that — that 

[171] 


THEWIDOW 


anybody  —  except     your     husband- 
may  say  to  you  in  the  conservatory— 
oh,  I  see  how  it  feels!"  finished  the 
widow    with    a    sympathetic    little 
shudder. 

"And  yet,"  reflected  the  bachelor, 
"a  woman  is  always  exacting  vows 
and  promises  from  the  man  she  loves, 
always  putting  up  bars  —  for  him  to 
jump  over;  when  if  she  would  only 
leave  him  alone  he  would  be  per 
fectly  contented  to  stay  within  bounds 
and  graze  in  his  own  pasture.  A 
man  hates  being  pinned  down;  but  a 
woman  doesn't  want  anything  around 
that  she  can't  pin  down,  from  her 
belt  and  her  theories  to  her  hat  and 
her  husband." 

"Well,"  protested  the  widow, 
studying  the  toe  of  her  slipper,  "it 
is  a  satisfaction  to  know  you've  got 

[172] 


<£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

your  husband  fastened  on  straight  by 
his  promises  and  held  in  place  by  his 
vows  and  that  he  loves  you  enough 
to- 

"Usually,"  interrupted  the  bache 
lor,  "a  man  loves  you  in  inverse 
ratio  to  his  protestations.  The  lover 
who  promises  all  things  without  re 
serve  is  too  often  like  the  fellow  who 
doesn't  question  the  hotel  bill  nor  ask 
the  price  of  the  wine,  because  he 
doesn't  intend  to  pay  it  anyway.  The 
fellow  who  is  prodigal  with  vows  and 
promises  and  poetry  is  generally  the 
one  to  whom  such  things  mean  noth 
ing  and,  being  of  no  value,  can  be 
flung  about  generously  to  every  girl 
he  meets.  The  firm  with  the  biggest 
front  office  is  likely  to  be  the  one  with 
the  smallest  deposit  in  the  safe.  The 
man  who  swears  off  loudest  on  New 

[173] 


-*  THE    WIDOW  <* 

Year's  is  usually  the  one  they  have  to 
carry  home  the  morning  after.  And 
the  chap  who  promises  a  girl  a  life 
of  roses  is  the  one  who  will  let  her 
pick  all  the  thorns  off  for  herself." 

"Perhaps,"  sighed  the  widow, 
chewing  the  stem  of  a  violet  thought 
fully,  "the  best  way  to  cure  a  man 
of  a  taste  for  anything,  after  all,  is 
to  let  him  have  too  much  of  it,  instead 
of  making  him  swear  off.  Tf  you 
want  him  to  hate  the  smell  of  a  pipe 
insist  on  his  smoking  one  all  the  time. 
If  you  want  him  to  sign  the  temper 
ance  pledge  serve  him  wine  with 
every  course.  If  you  want  him  to 
hate  a  woman  invite  her  to  meet  him 
every  time  he  calls,  and  tell  him  how 
'suitable'  she  would  be." 

"And  if  you  want  him  to  love  you," 
finished  the  bachelor,  "don't  ask  him 

[174] 


J«     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     <* 

to  swear  it,  but  tell  him  that  he  really 
ought  not  to.  The  best  way  to  man 
age  a  donkey — human  or  otherwise — 
is  to  turn  his  head  in  the  wrong  direc 
tion,  and  he'll  back  in  the  right  one." 

"Then,"  said  the  widow  decisively, 
"we  ought  to  begin  the  New  Year  by 
making  some  irresolutions." 

"Some— what?" 

"Vows  that  we  won't  stop  doing 
the  things  we  ought  not  to  do,"  ex 
plained  the  widow. 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  bachelor 
thoughtfully,  "I'll  make  an  irresolu 
tion  to  go  on  making  love  to  you  as 
much  as  I  like." 

"You  mean  as  much  as  I  like,  Mr. 
Travers,"  corrected  the  widow 
severely. 

"How  much  do  you  like?"  asked 

[  175  ] 


«*  THE    WIDOW  >* 

the  bachelor,  leaning  over  to  look 
into  the  widow's  eyes. 

The  widow  kicked  the  corner  of 
the  rug  tentatively. 

"I  like — all  but  the  proposing,"  she 
said  slowly.  "You  really  ought  to 
stop  that— 

"I'm  going  to  stop  it — to-night," 
said  the  bachelor  firmly. 

The  widow  looked  up  in  alarm. 

"Oh,  you  don't  have  to  commence 
keeping  your  resolutions  until  tomor 
row  morning,"  she  said  quickly. 

"And  you  are  going  to  stop  refus 
ing  me — to-night,"  continued  the 
bachelor  firmly. 

The  widow  studied  the  corner  of 
the  rug  with  great  concern. 

"And,"  went  on  the  bachelor,  tak 
ing  something  from  his  pocket  and 
toying  with  it  thoughtfully,  "you  are 

[176] 


ll  don't.      In  a  moment  we' 
he   making   promises." 


<£     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J* 

going  to  put  on  this  ring" — he  leaned 
over,  caught  the  widow's  hand  and 
slipped  the  glittering  thing  on  her 
third  finger.  "Now,"  he  began,  "you 
are  going  to  say  that  you  will " 

The  widow  sprang  up  suddenly. 

"Oh,  don't,  don't,  don't!"  she  cried. 
"In  a  moment  we'll  be  making 
promises." 

"We  don't  need  to,"  said  the  bache 
lor,  leaning  back  nonchalantly,  "we 
can  begin  by  making — arrangements. 
Would  you  prefer  to  live  in  town  or 
at  Tuxedo?  And  do  you  think  Eu 
rope  or  Bermuda  the  best  place  for 
the " 

"Bermuda,  by  all  means,"  broke 
in  the  widow,  "and  I  wish  you'd  have 
that  hideous  portico  taken  off  your 
town  house,  Billy,  and—  But  the 
rest  of  her  words  were  smothered  in 

[m] 


J*  THE    WIDOW  «* 

the  bachelor's  coat  lapel — and  some 
thing  else. 

"Then  you  do  mean  to  marry  me, 
after  all?"  cried  the  bachelor  trium 
phantly. 

The  widow  gasped  for  breath  and 
patted  her  hair  anxiously. 

"I — I  meant  to  marry  you  all  the 
time!" she  cried,"But  I  never  thought 
you  were  really  in  earnest  and— 

"  'Methinks',"  quoted  the  bachelor 
happily,  "  'that  neither  of  us  did  pro 
test  too  much.'  We  haven't  made 
any  promises,  you  know." 

"Not  one,"  rejoined  the  widow 
promptly,  "as  to  my  flirting." 

"Nor  as  to  my  clubs." 

"Nor  as  to  my  relatives." 

"Nor  my  cigars." 

"And  we  won't  make  any  vows," 

[178] 


<*     TO  SAY  NOTHING  OF  THE  MAN     J« 


cried  the  widow,  "except  marriage 


vows." 


"And  New  Year's  irresolutions," 
added  the  bachelor. 

"Listen,"  cried  the  widow  softly, 
with  her  fingers  on  her  lips. 

A  peal  of  a  thousand  silver  bells 
rang  out  on  the  midnight  air. 

"The  chimes!"  exclaimed  the 
widow.  "They're  full  of  promises!" 

"I  thought  it  sounded  like  a  wed 
ding  bell,"  said  the  bachelor,  disap 
pointedly. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  widow,  "it  was 
only  Love — ringing  off." 


[179] 


A     000759163     9 


